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BERENICE 


THE  NOVFf.S  OF 

E.  PHILLIPS 

OPPENHEIM 

A  Prince  of  Sinners 

A  Lost  Leader 

Anna  the  Adventuress 

The  Great  Secret 

The  Master  Mummer 

The  Avenger 

A  Maker  of  History 

As  a  Man  Lives 

Mysterious  Mr.  Sabin 

The  Missioner 

The  Yellow  Crayon 

The  Governors 

The  Betrayal 
The  Traitors 

The  Man  and  His 
Kingdom 

A  Millionaire  of  Yes- 

Enoch Strone 

terday 

A  Sleeping  Memory 

The  Long  Arm  of 

The  MzJefactor 

Mannister 

A  Daughter  of  the 
Marionis 

Jeanne  of  the  Marshes 
The  Illustrious  Prince 

The  Mystery  of  Mr. 

The  Lost  Ambassador 

Bernard  Brown 

Berenice 

••mJCw'^k't'^ky,  I'll* 


I       V,,.. .i. 


BERENICE 


BY 

E.   PHILLIPS  OPPENHEIM 

AUTHOR    OF    "  THE    LOST    AHBASSADOB,"    "  THE    HISSIONBB," 
"  THE    ILLUSTRIOUS    PRINCE,"    ETC. 


WITH  ILLUSTRATIONS  BY 

HOWARD  CHANDLER  CHRISTY 

AND 

HOWARD  SOMERVILLE 


BOSTON 

LITTLE,   BROWN,   AND   COMPANY 

1911 


Copyright,  1907,  19  tl, 
By  Little,  Brown,  and  Company. 


All  rights  reserved 

Published,  January,  1911 
Second  Printing 


PrinttrB 
S.  J.  Parkhill  &  Co.,  Boston,  U.  8.  A. 


j9tacK       ^^. 
Annex      uVs 


OC>±bti 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

Her  dark,  wet  eyes  seemed  touched  with  smouldering 

fire Frontispiece 

*'  What  I  have  seen,"  Matravers  said  gravely,  "  I 

do  not  like" Page         15 

But  nothing  in  her  words  or  in  his  alluded  to  it    .       "  25 

Her  companion,  who  was  intent  upon  the  wine  list, 

noticed  nothing "  31 

"  Friends,"  she  repeated,  with  a  certain  wistfulness 

in  her  tone "  65 

At  half-past  four  his  servant  brought  in  a  small 

tea  equipage "  83 

"With  an  old-fashioned  courtesy  ....  he  offered 

her  his  arm "         105 

There  seemed  to  him  something  almost  unearthly 
about  this  woman  with  her  soft  grey  gown 
and  marble  face "         111 

Matravers  was  suddenly  conscious  of  an  odd  sense 

of  disturbance "         135 

"I  can  do  it,"  she  assured  him.     "I  believe  you 

doubt  my  ability,  but  you  need  not "    ...       "         143 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

"  Do  you  know  that   man  is  driving  me   slowly 

mad?" Page       149 

Matravers  found  himself  wondering  at  this  new 

and  very  natural  note  of  domesticity  in  her  ,       "         169 

She  did  not  answer  him.     But  indeed  there  was 

no  need "         173 

"I  am  compelled  to  tell  you,  and  these  gentlemen, 

that  your  statement  is  a  lie ! " "         191 

"  You   mean   this !  "   he  cried  thickly.     "  Say  it 

again  —  quick!" "         211 

Berenice  was  lying  in  a  crumpled  heap  on  the  low 

couch "         233 

But  there  was  no  answer  —  there  never  could  be 

any  answer      ...........       "        259 


BERENICE 


BERENICE 


CHAPTER   I 

"IlTOU  may  not  care  for  the  play,"  EUi- 
son  said  eagerly.  "  You  are  of  the 
old  world,  and  Isteinism  to  you  will  simply 
spell  chaos  and  vulgarity.  But  the  woman! 
well,  you  will  see  her!  I  don't  want  to 
prejudice  you  by  praises  which  you  would 
certainly  think  extravagant!  I  will  say 
nothing." 

Matravers  smiled  gravely  as  he  took  his 
seat  in  the  box  and  looked  out  with  some 
wonder  at  the  ill-lit,  half -empty  theatre. 

"  I  am  afraid,"  he  said,  "  that  I  am  very 
much  out  of  place  here,  yet  do  not  imagine 

9 


BERENICE 

that  I  bring  with  me  any  personal  bias 
whatever.  I  know  nothing  of  the  play,  and 
Isteinism  is  merely  a  phrase  to  me.  To- 
night I  have  no  individuality.  I  am  a 
critic." 

"  So  much  depends,"  Ellison  remarked, 
"  upon  the  point  of  view.  I  am  afraid  that 
you  are  the  last  man  in  the  world  to  have 
any  sympathy  with  the  decadent." 

"  I  do  not  properly  understand  the  use 
of  the  word  '  decadent,'  "  Matravers  said. 
"  But  you  need  not  be  alarmed  as  to  my 
attitude.  Whatever  my  own  gods  may  be, 
I  am  no  slave  to  them.  Isteinism  has  its 
devotees,  and  whatever  has  had  humanity 
and  force  enough  in  it  to  attract  a  follow- 
ing must  at  least  demand  a  respectful  at- 
tention from  the  Press.  And  to-night  I 
am  the  Press !  " 

"  I  am  sorry,"  Ellison  remarked,  glanc- 
ing out  into  the  gloomy  well  of  the  theatre 
with  an  impatient  frown,  "  that  there  is  so 

10 


BERENICE 

bad  a  house  to-night.  It  is  depressing  to 
play  seriously  to  a  handful  of  people !  " 

"  It  will  not  affect  my  judgment,"  Ma- 
travers  said. 

*'  It  will  affect  her  acting,  though,"  Elli- 
son replied  gloomily.  "  There  are  times 
when,  even  to  us  who  know  her  strength, 
and  are  partial  to  her,  she  appears  to  act 
with  difficulty,  —  to  be  encumbered  with  all 
the  diffidence  of  the  amateur.  For  a  whole 
scene  she  will  be  little  better  than  a  stick. 
The  change,  when  it  comes,  is  like  a  sudden 
fire  from  Heaven.  Something  flashes  into 
her  face,  she  becomes  inspired,  she  holds  us 
breathless,  hanging  upon  every  word;  it  is 
then  one  realizes  that  she  is  a  genius." 

"  Let  us  hope,"  Matravers  said,  "  that 
some  such  moment  may  visit  her  to-night. 
One  needs  some  compensation  for  a  dinner- 
less  evening,  and  such  surroundings  as 
these!" 

He  turned  from  the  contemplation  of  the 
11 


BERENICE 

dreary,  half -empty  auditorium  with  a  faint 
shudder.  The  theatre  was  an  ancient  and 
unpopular  one.  The  hall-mark  of  failure 
and  poverty  was  set  alike  upon  the  tawdry 
and  faded  hangings,  the  dust-eaten  decora- 
tions and  the  rows  of  bare  seats.  It  was  a 
relief  when  the  feeble  overture  came  to  an 
end,  and  the  curtain  was  rung  up.  He  set- 
tled himself  down  at  once  to  a  careful  ap- 
preciation of  the  performance. 

Matravers  was  not  in  any  sense  of  the 
word  a  dramatic  critic.  He  was  a  man  of 
letters;  amongst  the  elect  he  was  reckoned 
a  master  in  his  art.  He  occupied  a  singu- 
lar, in  many  respects  a  unique,  position. 
But  in  matters  dramatic,  he  confessed  to  an 
ignorance  which  was  strictly  actual  and  in 
no  way  assumed.  His  presence  at  the  New 
Theatre  on  that  night,  which  was  to  become 
for  him  a  very  memorable  one,  was  purely 
a  matter  of  chance  and  good  nature.  The 
greatest  of  London  dailies  had  decided  to 

12 


BERENICE 

grant  a  passing  notice  to  the  extraordinary 
series  of  plays,  which  in  flightier  journals 
had  provoked  something  between  the  blank- 
est wonderment  and  the  most  boisterous 
ridicule.  Their  critic  was  ill  —  Matravers, 
who  had  at  first  laughed  at  the  idea,  had 
consented  after  much  pressure  to  take  his 
place.  He  felt  himself  from  the  first  con- 
fronted with  a  difficult  task,  yet  he  entered 
upon  it  with  a  certain  grave  seriousness, 
characteristic  of  the  man,  anxious  to  arrive 
at  and  to  comprehend  the  true  meaning  of 
what  in  its  first  crude  presentation  to  his 
senses  seemed  wholly  devoid  of  anything 
pertaining  to  art. 

The  first  act  was  almost  over  before  the 
heroine  of  the  play,  and  the  actress  concern- 
ing whose  merits  there  was  already  some 
difference  of  opinion,  appeared.  A  little 
burst  of  applause,  half-hearted  from  the 
house  generally,  enthusiastic  from  a  few, 
greeted   her    entrance.      Ellison,    watching 

13 


BERENICK 

his  companion's  face  closely,  was  gratified 
to  find  a  distinct  change  there.  In  ]Ma- 
travers'  altered  expression  was  something 
more  than  the  transitory  sensation  of  pleas- 
ure, called  up  by  the  unexpected  appear- 
ance of  a  very  beautiful  woman.  The 
whole  impassiveness  of  that  calm,  almost 
marble-still  face,  with  its  set,  cold  lips,  and 
slightly  wearied  eyes,  had  suddenly  disap- 
peared, and  what  Ellison  had  hoped  for 
had  arrived.  Matravers  was,  without  doubt, 
interested. 

Yet  the  woman,  whose  appearance  had 
caused  a  certain  thrill  to  quiver  through 
the  house,  and  whose  coming  had  certainly 
been  an  event  to  Matravers,  did  absolutely 
nothing  for  the  remainder  of  that  dreary 
first  act  to  redeem  the  forlorn  play,  or  to 
justify  her  own  peculiar  reputation.  She 
acted  languidly,  her  enunciation  was  im- 
perfect, her  gestures  were  forced  and  inapt. 
When  the  curtain  went  down  upon  the  first 

14 


tiM'^MlMMim,. 


•'  What  I  ha%'e  seen,"  Matravers  said  gravely,  "  I  do  not  like 


BERENICE 

act,  Matravers  was  looking  grave.    Ellison 
was  obviously  uneasy. 

"  Berenice,"  he  muttered,  "  is  not  herself 
to-night.  She  will  improve.  You  must 
suspend  your  judgment." 

Matravers  fingered  his  programme  nerv- 
ously. 

"  You  are  interested  in  this  production, 
Ellison,"  he  said,  "  and  I  should  be  sorry 
to  write  anything  Hkely  to  do  it  harm.  I 
think  it  would  be  better  if  I  went  away 
now.  I  cannot  be  blamed  if  I  decline  to 
give  an  opinion  on  anything  which  I  have 
only  partially  seen." 

Ellison  shook  his  head. 

"No,  I'll  chance  it,"  he  said.  "Don't 
go.  You  haven't  seen  Berenice  at  her  best 
yet.    You  have  not  seen  her  at  all,  in  fact." 

"  What  I  have  seen,"  Matravers  said 
gravely,  "  I  do  not  like." 

"  At  least,"  Ellison  protested,  "  she  is 
beautiful." 

17 


BERENICE 

"  According  to  what  canons  of  beauty,  I 
wonder?  "  Matravers  remarked.  "  I  hold 
myself  a  very  poor  judge  of  woman's  looks, 
but  I  can  at  least  recognize  the  classical 
and  Renaissance  standards.  The  beauty 
which  this  woman  possesses,  if  any,  is  of 
the  decadent  order.  I  do  not  recognize  it. 
I  cannot  appreciate  it !  " 

Ellison  laughed  softl5\  He  had  a  mar- 
vellous belief  in  this  woman  and  in  her 
power  of  attracting. 

"  You  are  not  a  woman's  man,  Matrav- 
ers, or  you  would  know  that  her  beauty  is 
not  a  matter  of  curves  and  colouring!  You 
cannot  judge  her  as  a  piece  of  statuary. 
All  your  remarks  you  would  retract  if  you 
talked  with  her  for  five  minutes.  I  am  not 
sure,"  he  continued,  "  that  I  dare  not  war- 
rant you  to  retract  them  before  this  eve- 
ning is  over.  At  least,  I  ask  you  to  stay. 
I  will  run  my  risk  of  your  pulverization." 

The  curtain  rang  up  again,  the  play  pro- 
18 


BERENICE 

ceeded.  But  not  the  same  play  —  at  least, 
so  it  seemed  to  Matravers  —  not  the  same 
play,  surely  not  the  same  woman!  A  situ- 
ation improbable  enough,  but  dramatic,  had 
occurred  at  the  very  beginning  of  the  sec- 
ond act.  She  had  risen  to  the  opportunity, 
triumphed  over  it,  electrified  her  audience, 
delighted  Ellison,  moved  Matravers  to  si- 
lent wonder.  Her  personality  seemed  to 
have  dilated  with  the  flash  of  genius  which 
Matravers  himself  had  been  amongst  the 
first  to  recognize.  The  strange  pallor  of 
her  face  seemed  no  longer  the  legacy  of  ill- 
health;  her  eyes,  wonderfully  soft  and  dark, 
were  lit  now  with  all  manner  of  strange 
fires.  She  carried  herself  with  supreme 
grace;  there  was  not  the  faintest  suspicion 
of  staginess  in  any  one  of  her  movements. 
And  more  wonderful  than  anything  to  Ma- 
travers, himself  a  delighted  worshipper  of 
the  beautiful  in  all  human  sounds,  was  that 
marvellously  sweet  voice,  so  low  and  yet  so 

19 


BERENICE 

clear,  expressing  with  perfect  art  the  high- 
est and  most  hallowed  emotions,  with  the 
least  amount  of  actual  sound.  She  seemed 
to  pour  out  the  vial  of  her  wrath,  her  out- 
raged womanhood  in  tones  raised  little 
above  a  whisper,  and  the  man  who  fronted 
her  seemed  turned  into  the  actual  semblance 
of  an  ashamed  and  unclean  thing.  Matrav- 
ers  made  no  secret  now  of  his  interest.  He 
had  drawn  his  chair  to  the  front  of  the  box, 
and  the  footlights  fell  full  upon  his  pale, 
studious  face  turned  with  grave  and  abso- 
lute attention  upon  the  little  drama  work- 
ing itself  out  upon  the  stage.  Ellison  in 
the  midst  of  his  jubilation  found  time  to 
notice  what  to  him  seemed  a  somewhat  sin- 
gular incident.  In  crossing  the  stage  her 
eyes  had  for  a  moment  met  Matravers'  ear- 
nest gaze,  and  Ellison  could  almost  have 
declared  that  a  faint,  welcoming  light 
flashed  for  a  moment  from  the  woman  to 
the  man.     Yet  he  was  sure  that  the  two 

20 


BERENICE 

were  strangers.  They  had  never  met  — 
her  very  name  had  been  unknown  to  him. 
It  must  have  been  his  fancy. 

The  curtain  fell  upon  the  second  and 
final  act  amidst  as  much  applause  as  the 
sparsely  fiUed  theatre  could  offer;  but  min- 
gled with  it,  almost  as  the  last  words  of  her 
final  speech  had  left  her  lips,  came  a  curi- 
ous hoarse  cry  from  somewhere  in  the 
cheaper  seats  near  the  back  of  the  house. 
It  was  heard  very  distinctly  in  every  part; 
it  rang  out  upon  the  deep  quivering  still- 
ness which  reigns  for  a  second  between  the 
end  of  a  play  which  has  left  the  audience 
spellbound,  and  the  burst  of  applause  which 
is  its  first  reawakening  instinct.  It  was 
drowned  in  less  than  a  moment,  yet  many 
people  turned  their  startled  heads  towards 
the  rows  of  back  seats.  Matravers,  one  of 
the  first  to  hear  it,  was  one  of  the  most 
interested  —  perhaps  because  his  sensitive 
ears  had  recognized  in  it  that  peculiar  in- 

21 


BERENICE 

flection,  the  true  ring  of  earnestness.  For 
it  was  essentially  a  human  cry,  a  cry  of 
sorrow,  a  strange  note  charged  in  its  very 
hoarseness  and  spontaneity  with  an  unut- 
terable pathos.  It  was  as  though  it  had 
been  actually  drawn  from  the  heart  to  the 
lips,  and  long  after  the  house  had  become 
deserted,  Matrav^ers  stood  there,  his  hands 
resting  upon  the  edge  of  the  box,  and  his 
dark  face  turned  steadfastly  to  that  far- 
away corner,  where  it  seemed  to  him  that 
he  could  see  a  solitary,  human  figure,  sit- 
ting with  bowed  head  amongst  the  wilder- 
ness of  empty  seats. 

Ellison  touched  him  upon  the  elbow. 

"  You  must  come  with  me  and  be  pre- 
sented to  Berenice,"  he  said. 

JVIatravers  shook  his  head. 

"  Please  excuse  me,"  he  said ;    "  I  would 
really  rather  not." 

Ellison  held   out  a  crumpled  half -sheet 
of  notepaper. 

22 


BERENICE 

"  This  has  just  been  brought  in  to  me," 
he  said. 

Matravers  read  the  single  line,  hastily 
written,  and  in  pencil :  — 

"  Bring  your  friend  to  me.  —  B.'* 

"  It  will  scarcely  take  us  a  moment," 
Ellison  continued.  "  Don't  stop  to  put  on 
your  coat;  we  are  the  last  in  the  theatre 
now." 

Matravers,  whose  will  was  usually  a  very 
dominant  one,  found  himself  calmly  obey- 
ing his  companion.  Following  Ellison,  he 
was  bustled  ^  down  a  long,  narrow  passage, 
across  a  bare  wilderness  of  boards  and  odd 
pieces  of  scenery,  to  the  door  of  a  room 
immediately  behind  the  stage.  As  Ellison 
raised  his  fingers  to  knock,  it  was  opened 
from  the  inside,  and  Berenice  came  out 
wrapped  from  head  to  foot  in  a  black  satin 
coat,  and  with  a  piece  of  white  lace  twisted 
around  her  hair.  She  stopped  when  she 
saw  the  two  men,  and  held  out  her  hand  to 

23 


BERENICE 

Ellison,  who  immediately  introduced  Ma- 
travers. 

Again  Ellison  fancied  that  in  her  greet- 
ing of  him  there  were  some  traces  of  a 
former  knowledge.  But  nothing  in  her 
words  or  in  his  alluded  to  it. 

"  I  am  very  much  honoured,"  Matravers 
said  simply.  "  I  am  a  rare  attendant  at 
the  theatre,  and  your  performance  gave  me 
great   pleasure." 

"  I  am  very  glad,"  she  answered.  "  Do 
you  know  that  you  made  me  wretchedly 
nervous?  I  was  told  just  as  I  was  going 
on  that  you  had  come  to  smash  us  all  to 
atoms  in  that  terrible  Day." 

"  I  came  as  a  critic,"  he  answered,  "  but 
I  am  a  very  incompetent  one.  Perhaps  you 
will  appreciate  my  ignorance  more  when  I 
tell  you  that  this  is  my  first  visit  behind  the 
scenes  of  a  theatre." 

She  laughed  softly,  and  they  looked 
around  together  at  the  dimly  burning  gas- 

24 


But  nothing  in  her  words  or  in  his  alluded  to  it 


BERENICE 

lights,  the  creaking  scenery  being  drawn 
back  from  the  stage,  the  woman  with  a 
brush  and  mop  sweeping,  and  at  that  dis- 
mal perspective  of  holland-shrouded  audi- 
torium beyond,  now  quite  deserted. 

"  At  least,"  she  said,  "  your  impressions 
cannot  be  mixed  ones.     It  is  hideous  here." 

He  did  not  contradict  her;  and  they  both 
ignored  Ellison's  murmured  compliment. 

"  It  is  very  draughty,"  he  I'cmarked, 
"  and  you  seem  cold ;  we  must  not  keep 
you  here.  May  we  —  can  I,"  he  added, 
glancing  down  the  stone  passage,  "  show 
you  to  your  carriage  ?  " 

She  laughed  softly. 

"  You  may  come  with  me,"  she  said, 
"  but  our  exit  Is  like  a  rabbit  burrow ;  we 
must  go  in  single  file,  and  almost  on  hands 
and  knees." 

She  led  the  way,  and  they  followed  her 
into  the  street.  A  small  brougham  was 
waiting   at   the   door,    and   her   maid   was 

27 


BEEENICE 

standing  by  it.  The  commissionaire  stood 
away,  and  Matravers  closed  the  carriage 
door  upon  them.  Her  white,  ungloved 
hand,  loaded  —  overloaded  it  seemed  to  him 
—  with  rings,  stole  through  the  window,  and 
he  held  it  for  a  moment  in  his.  He  felt 
somehow  that  he  was  expected  to  say  some- 
thing. She  was  looking  at  him  very  in- 
tently. There  was  some  powder  on  her 
cheeks,  which  he  noted  with  an  instinctive 
thrill  of  aversion. 

"  Shall  I  tell  him  home?  "  he  asked. 

"  If  you  please,"  she  answered. 

"Madam!"  her  maid  interposed. 

"  Home,  please,"  Berenice  said  calmly. 
"  Good-by,  Mr.  Matravers." 

"  Good  night." 

The  carriage  rolled  away.  At  the  comer 
of  the  street  Berenice  pulled  the  check- 
string.  "  The  Milan  Restaurant,"  she  told 
the  man  briefly. 

Matravers  and  Ellison  lit  their  cigarettes 
28 


BERENICE 

and  strolled  away  on  foot.     At  the  corner 
of  the  street  Ellison  had  an  inspiration. 

"  Let  us,"  he  said,  "  have  some  supper 
somewhere." 

Matravers  shook  his  head. 
'  "  I  really  have  a  great  deal  of  work  to 
do,"  he  said,  "  and  I  must  write  this  notice 
for  the  Day.    I  think  that  I  will  go  straight 
home." 

Ellison  thrust  his  arm  through  his  com- 
panion's, and  called  a  hansom. 

"  It  will  only  take  us  half  an  hour,"  he 
declared,  "  and  we  will  go  to  one  of  the 
fashionable  places.  You  will  be  amused! 
Come!  It  all  enters,  you  know,  into  your 
revised  scheme  of  life  —  the  attainment  of 
a  fuller  and  more  catholic  knowledge  of 
your  fellow-creatures.  We  will  see  our 
fellow-creatures  en  fete.'* 

Matravers  suffered  himself  to  be  per- 
suaded.    They  drove  to  a  restaurant  close 

at  hand,  and  stood  for  a  moment  at  the 

29 


BERENICE 

entrance  looking  for  seats.  The  room  was 
crowded. 

"  I  will  go,"  Ellison  said,  "  and  find  the 
director.  He  knows  me  well,  and  he  will 
find  me  a  table." 

He  elbowed  his  way  up  to  the  further 
end  of  the  apartment.  Matravers  remained 
a  somewhat  conspicuous  figure  in  the  door- 
way looking  from  one  to  another  of  the 
little  parties  with  a  smile,  half  amused,  half 
interested.  Suddenly  his  face  became 
grave,  —  his  heart  gave  an  unaccustomed 
leap!  He  stood  quite  still,  his  eyes  fixed 
upon  the  bent  head  and  white  shoulders 
of  a  woman  only  a  few  yards  away  from 
him.  Almost  at  the  same  moment  Berenice 
looked  up  and  their  eyes  met.  The  colour 
left  her  cheeks,  —  she  was  ghastly  pale !  A 
sentence  which  she  had  just  begun  died 
away  upon  her  lips;  her  companion,  who 
was  Intent  upon  the  wine  list,  noticed  noth- 
ing.    She  made  a  movement  as  though  to 

30 


Her  companion,  who  was  intent  upon  the  wine  list, 
noticed  nothing 


BEKENICE 

rise.  Simultaneously  Matravers  turned 
upon  his  heel  and  left  the  room. 

Ellison  came  hurrying  back  in  a  few 
moments  and  looked  in  vain  for  his  com- 
panion. As  he  stood  there  watching  the 
throng  of  people,  Berenice  called  him  to 
her. 

"  Your  friend,"  she  said,  "  has  gone 
away.  He  stood  for  a  moment  in  the  door- 
way like  Banquo's  ghost,  and  then  he  dis- 
appeared." 

Ellison  looked  vaguely  bewildered. 

"  Matravers  is  an  odd  sort,"  he  remarked. 
"  I  suppose  it  is  one  of  the  penalties  of 
genius  to  be  compelled  to  do  eccentric 
things.    I  must  have  my  supper  alone." 

"  Or  with  us,"  she  said.  "  You  know 
Mr.  Thorndyke,  don't  you?  There  is 
plenty  of  room  here." 


33 


CHAPTER   II 

ll/TATRAVERS  stood  at  an  open  win- 
dow, reading  a  note  by  the  grey  dawn 
light.  Below  him  stretched  the  broad  thor- 
oughfare of  Piccadilly,  noiseless,  shadowy, 
deserted.  He  had  thrown  up  the  window 
overcome  by  a  sudden  sense  of  suffocation, 
and  a  chill,  damp  breeze  came  stealing  in, 
cooling  his  parched  forehead  and  hot,  dry 
eyes.  For  the  last  two  or  three  hours  he 
had  been  working  with  an  unwonted  and 
rare  zest;  it  had  happened  quite  by  chance, 
for  as  a  rule  he  was  a  man  of  regular,  even 
mechanical  habits.  But  to-night  he  scarcely 
knew  himself,  —  he  had  all  the  sensations 
of  a  man  who  had  passed  through  a  new 
and  altogether  unexpected  experience.  At 
midnight  he  had  let  himself  into  his  room 

34 


BERENICE 

after  that  swift,  impulsive  departure  from 
the  Milan,  and  had  dropped  by  chance  into 
the  chair  before  his  writing-table.  The  sight 
of  his  last  unfinished  sentence,  abruptly 
abandoned  in  the  centre  of  a  neatly  written 
page  of  manuscript,  had  fascinated  him, 
and  as  he  sat  there  idly  with  the  loose  sheet 
in  his  hands,  holding  it  so  that  the  lamp- 
light might  fall  upon  its  very  legible  char- 
acters, an  idea  flashed  into  his  brain,  —  an 
idea  which  had  persistently  eluded  him  for 
days.  With  the  sudden  stimulus  of  a 
purely  mental  activity,  he  had  hastily 
thrown  aside  his  outdoor  garment,  and  had 
written  for  several  hours  with  a  readiness 
and  facihty  which  seemed,  somehow,  for  the 
last  few  days  to  have  been  denied  to  him. 

He  had  become  his  old  self  again,  —  the 
events  of  the  evening  lay  already  far  be- 
hind. Then  had  come  a  soft  knocking  at 
the  door,  followed  by  the  apologetic  en- 
trance of  his  serv^ant  bearing  a  note  upon 

35 


BERENICE 

which  his  name  was  written  in  hasty  char- 
acters with  an  "  Immediate  "  scrawled,  as 
though  by  an  after-thought,  upon  the  left- 
hand  corner.  He  had  torn  it  open  wonder- 
ing at  the  woman's  writing,  and  glanced 
at  its  brief  contents  carelessly  enough, — 
but  since  then  he  had  done  no  work.  For 
the  present  he  was  not  likely  to  do  any 
more. 

The  cold  breeze,  acting  like  a  tonic  upon 
his  dazed  senses,  awoke  in  him  also  a  pecul- 
iar restlessness,  a  feeling  of  intolerable  re- 
straint at  the  close  environment  of  his  little 
room  and  its  associations.  Its  atmosphere 
had  suddenly  become  stifling.  He  caught 
up  his  cloak  and  hat,  and  walked  out  again 
into  the  silent  street;  it  seemed  to  him,  mo- 
mentarily forgetful  of  the  hour,  like  a  city 
of  the  dead  into  which  he  had  wandered. 

As  he  turned,  from  habit,  towards  the 
Park,  the  great  houses  on  his  right  frowned 
down  upon  him  lightless  and  lifeless.     The 

36 


BERENICE 

broad  pavement,  pressed  a  few  hours  ago, 
and  so  soon  to  be  pressed  again  by  the 
steps  of  an  innumerable  multitude,  was  de- 
serted; his  own  footfall  seemed  to  awaken 
a  strange  and  curiously  persistent  echo,  as 
though  some  one  were  indeed  following 
him  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  way  under 
the  shadow  of  the  drooping  lime  trees. 
Once  he  stopped  and  listened.  The  foot- 
steps ceased  too.  There  was  no  one!  With 
a  faint  smile  at  the  illusion  to  which  he  had 
for  a  moment  yielded,  he  continued  his 
walk. 

Before  him  the  outline  of  the  arch  stood 
out  with  gloomy  distinctness  against  a  cold, 
lowering  background  of  vapourous  sky. 
Like  a  man  who  was  still  half  dreaming, 
he  crossed  the  road  and  entered  the  Park, 
making  his  way  towards  the  trees.  There 
was  a  spot  about  half-way  down,  where, 
in  the  afternoons,  he  usually  sat.  Near  it  he 
found  two  chairs,  one  on  top  of  the  other; 
37 


BERENICE 

he  removed  the  upper  one  and  sat  down, 
crossing  his  legs  and  lighting  a  cigarette 
which  he  took  from  his  case.  Then  in  a 
transitory  return  of  his  ordinary  state  of 
mind  he  laughed  softly  to  himself.  People 
would  say  that  he  was  going  mad. 

Through  half -closed  eyes  he  looked  out 
upon  the  broad  drive.  With  the  aid  of  an 
imagination  naturally  powerful,  he  was 
passing  with  marvellous  facility  into  an 
unreal  world  of  his  own  creation.  The 
scene  remained  the  same,  but  the  environ- 
ment changed  as  though  by  magic.  Sun- 
shine pierced  the  grey  veil  of  clouds,  gay 
voices  and  laughter  broke  the  chill  silence. 
The  horn  of  a  four-in-hand  sounded  from 
the  corner,  the  path  before  him  was 
thronged  with  men  and  women  whose  rus- 
tling skirts  brushed  often  against  his  knees, 
as  they  made  their  way  with  difficulty  along 
the  promenade.  A  glittering  show  of  car- 
riages and  coaches  swept  past  the  railings; 

38 


BERENICE 

the  air  was  full  of  the  sound  of  the  tram- 
pling of  horses  and  the  rolling  of  wheels. 
With  a  mental  restraint  of  which  he  was  all 
the  time  half -conscious,  he  kept  back  the 
final  effort  of  his  imagination  for  some 
time;   but  it  came  at  last. 

A  victoria,  drawn  by  a  single  dark  bay 
horse,  with  servants  in  quiet  hveries,  drew 
up  at  the  paling,  and  a  woman  leaning 
back  amongst  the  cushions  looked  out  at 
him  across  the  sea  of  faces  as  she  had  in- 
deed looked  more  than  once.  She  was  sur- 
rounded by  handsomer  women  in  more 
elaborate  toilettes  and  more  splendid  equi- 
pages. Her  cheeks  were  pale,  and  she  was 
undoubtedly  thin.  Nevertheless,  to  other 
people  as  well  as  to  him,  she  was  a  person- 
ahty.  Even  then  he  seemed  to  feel  the 
little  stir  which  always  passed  like  electric- 
ity into  the  air  directly  her  carriage  was 
stayed.  When  she  had  come,  when  he  was 
perfectly  sure  of  her,  and  indeed  under  the 

39 


BERENICE 

spell  of  her  near  presence,  he  drew  that 
note  again  from  his  pocket  and  read  it. 

"  18,  Laege  Street,  W. 

"  12.30. 
"  I  told  you  a  lie !  and  I  feel  that  you 
will  never  forgive  me!  Yet  I  want  to  ex- 
plain it.  There  is  something  I  want  you 
to  know!  Wiir  you  come  and  see  me?  I 
shall  be  at  home  until  one  o'clock  to-mor- 
row morning,  or,  if  the  afternoon  suits  you 
better,  from  4  to  6.  Berenice." 

A  lie!  Yes,  it  was  that.  To  him,  an 
inveterate  lover  of  truth,  the  offence  had 
seemed  wholly  unpardonable.  He  had  set 
himself  to  forget  the  woman  and  the  inci- 
dent as  something  altogether  beneath  his 
recollection.  The  night,  with  its  host  of 
strange,  half-awakened  sensations,  was  a 
memory  to  be  lived  down,  to  be  crushed 
altogether.    For  him,  doubtless,  that  lie  had 

40 


BERENICE 

been  a  providence.  It  put  a  stop  to  any 
further  intercourse  between  them,  —  it 
stamped  her  at  once  with  the  hall-mark 
of  unworthiness.  Yet  he  knew  that  he  was 
disappointed;  disappointment  was,  perhaps, 
a  mild  word.  He  had  walked  through  the 
streets  with  Ellison,  after  that  meeting  with 
her  at  the  theatre,  conscious  of  an  unwonted 
buoyancy  of  spirits,  feeling  that  he  had 
drawn  into  his  life  a  new  experience  which 
promised  to  be  a  very  pleasant  one. 

There  were  things  about  the  woman 
which  had  not  pleased  him,  but  they  were, 
on  the  whole,  merely  superficial  incidents, 
accidents  he  chose  to  think,  of  her  environ- 
ment. He  had  even  permitted  himself  to 
look  forward  to  their  next  meeting,  to  a 
definite  continuance  of  their  acquaintance. 
Standing  in  the  doorway  of  the  brilliantly 
lighted  IVIilan,  he  had  looked  in  at  the  vivid 
little  scene  with  a  certain  eager  tolerance,  — 
there  was  much,  after  all,  that  was  attract- 

41 


BERENICE 

ive  in  this  side  of  life,  so  much  that  was 
worth  cultivating;  he  blamed  himself  that 
he  had  stood  aloof  from  it  for  so  long. 

Then  their  eyes  had  met,  he  had  seen  her 
sudden  start,  had  felt  his  heart  sink  like 
lead.  She  was  a  creature  of  common  clay 
after  all!  His  eyes  rested  for  a  moment 
upon  her  companion,  a  man  well  known  to 
him,  though  of  a  class  for  whom  his  con- 
tempt was  great,  and  with  whom  he  had 
no  kinship.  She  was  like  this  then!  It  was 
a  pity. 

His  cigarette  went  out,  and  a  rain-drop, 
which  had  been  hovering  upon  a  leaf  above 
him,  fell  with  a  splash  upon  the  sheet  of 
heavy  white  paper.  He  rose  to  his  feet, 
stiff  and  chilled  and  disillusioned.  His 
little  ghost-world  of  fancies  had  faded 
away.  Morning  had  come,  and  eastwards, 
a  single  shaft  of  cold  sunlight  had  pierced 
the  grey  sky. 


42 


CHAPTER   III 

A  T  ten  o*clock  he  breakfasted,  after 
three  hours'  sleep  and  a  cold  bath. 
In  the  bright,  yet  soft  spring  daylight,  the 
lines  of  his  face  had  relaxed,  and  the  pallor 
of  his  cheeks  was  less  unnatural.  He  was 
still  a  man  of  remarkable  appearance;  his 
features  were  strong  and  firmly  chiselled, 
his  forehead  was  square  and  almost  hard. 
He  wore  no  beard,  but  a  slight,  black  mous- 
tache only  half -concealed  a  delicate  and  sen- 
sitive mouth.  His  complexion  and  his  soft 
grey  eyes  were  alike  possessed  of  a  singu- 
lar clearness,  as  though  they  were,  indeed, 
the  indices  of  a  temperate  and  well-con- 
tained life.  His  dress,  and  every  move- 
ment and  detail  of  his  person,  were  charac- 

43 


BERENICE 

terized  by  an  extreme  deliberation;  his 
whole  appearance  bespoke  a  pecuHar  and 
almost  feminine  fastidiousness.  The  few 
appointments  of  his  simple  meal  were  the 
most  perfect  of  their  kind.  A  delicate  vase 
of  freshly  cut  flowers  stood  on  the  centre 
of  the  spotless  table-cloth,  —  the  hangings 
and  colouring  of  the  apartment  were  softly 
harmonious.  The  walls  were  hung  with 
fine  engravings,  with  here  and  there  a  bril- 
liant little  water-colour  of  the  school  of 
Corot;  a  few  marble  and  bronze  statuettes 
were  scattered  about  on  the  mantelpiece  and 
on  brackets.  There  was  nothing  particu- 
larly striking  anywhere,  yet  there  was  noth- 
ing on  which  the  eye  could  not  rest  with 
pleasure. 

At  half -past  ten  he  lit  a  cigarette,  and 
sat  down  at  his  desk.  He  wrote  quite 
steadily  for  an  hour;  at  the  end  of  that 
time  he  pinned  together  the  result  of  his 

work,  and  wrote  a  hasty  note. 
44 


BERENICE 

"  113,  Piccadilly. 
"  Dear  Mr.  Haslup,  — 
"  I  went  last  night  to  the  New  Theatre, 
and  I  send  you  my  views  as  to  what  I  saw 
there.     But  I  beg  that  you  will  remember 
my  absolute  ignorance  on  all  matters  per- 
taining to  the  modern  drama,  and  use  your 
own  discretion  entii*ely  as  to  the  disposal 
of  the  enclosed.     I  do  not  feel  myself,  in 
any  sense  of  the  word,  a  competent  critic, 
and  I  trust  that  you  will  not  feel  yourself 
under  the  least  obligation  to  give  to  my 
views  the  weight  of  your  journal. 
"  I  remain, 

"  Yours  truly, 
"  John  Matravers." 

His  finger  was  upon  the  bell,  when  his 
servant  entered,  bearing  a  note  upon  a 
salver.  Matravers  glanced  at  the  hand- 
writing already  becoming  familiar  to  him, 
recognizing,  too,  the  faint  odour  of  violets 
45 


BERENICE 

which  seemed  to  escape  into  the  room  as  his 
fingers  broke  the  seal. 

"It  is  half -past  eleven  and  you  have  not 
come!  Does  that  mean  that  you  will  not 
listen  to  me,  that  you  mean  to  judge  me 
unheard?  You  will  not  be  so  unkind!  I 
shall  remain  indoors  until  one  o'clock,  and 
I  shall  expect  you. 

"  Berenice." 

Matravers  laid  the  note  down,  and  cov- 
ered it  with  a  paper-weight.  Then  he 
sealed  his  own  letter,  and  gave  it,  with  the 
manuscript,  to  his  servant.  The  man  with- 
drew, and  Matravers  continued  his  writ- 
ing. 

He  worked  steadily  until  two  o'clock. 
Then  a  simple  luncheon  was  brought  in  to 
him,  and  upon  the  tray  another  note.  Ma- 
travers took  it  with  some  hesitation,  and 
read  it  thoughtfully. 

46 


BERENICE 

"  Two   O'CLOCK. 

"  You  have  made  up  your  mind,  then, 
not  to  come.  Very  well,  I  too  am  deter- 
mined. If  you  will  not  come  to  me,  I  shall 
come  to  you!  I  shall  remain  in  until  four 
o'clock.  You  may  expect  to  see  me  any 
time  after  then.  Berenice." 

Matravers  ate  his  luncheon  and  pon- 
dered, finally  deciding  to  abandon  a  strug- 
gle in  which  his  was  obviously  the  weaker 
position.  He  lingered  for  a  while  over  his 
coffee;  at  three  o'clock  he  retired  for  a  few 
moments  into  his  dressing-room,  and  then 
descending  the  stairs,  made  his  way  out 
into  the  street. 

He  had  told  himself  only  a  few  hours 
back  that  he  would  be  wise  to  ignore  this 
summons  from  a  woman,  the  ways  of  whose 
life  must  lie  very  far  indeed  from  his.  Yet 
he  knew  that  his  meeting  with  her  had 
affected  him  as  nothing  of  the  sort  had  ever 

47 


BEBENICE 

affected  him  before  —  a  man  unimpression- 
able where  women  were  concerned,  and  ever 
devoted  to  and  cultivating  a  somewhat  un- 
natural exclusiveness.  Her  first  note  he 
had  been  content  to  ignore,  —  she  might 
have  written  it  in  a  fit  of  pique  —  but  the 
second  had  made  him  thoughtful.  Her 
very  persistence  was  characteristic.  Per- 
haps after  all  she  was  in  the  right  —  he  had 
arrived  too  hastily  at  an  ignoble  conclusion. 
Her  attitude  towards  him  was  curiously  un- 
conventional;  it  was  an  attitude  such  as 
none  of  the  few  women  with  whom  he  had 
ever  been  brought  into  contact  would  have 
dreamed  of  assuming.  But  none  the  less 
it  had  for  him  a  fascination  which  he  could 
not  measure  or  define,  —  it  had  awakened 
a  new  sensation,  which,  as  a  philosopher, 
he  was  anxious  to  probe.  The  mysticism  of 
his  early  morning  wanderings  seemed  to 
him,  as  he  walked  leisurely  through  the 
sunlit  streets,  in  a  sense  ridiculous.     After 

48 


BERENICE 

all  it  was  a  little  thing  that  he  was  going 
to  do;  he  was  going  to  make,  against  his 
will,  an  afternoon  call.  To  other  men  it 
would  have  seemed  less  than  nothing.  Al- 
beit he  knew  he  was  about  to  draw  into  his 
life  a  new  experience. 

He  rang  the  bell  at  Number  18,  Large 
Street,  and  gave  his  card  to  the  trim  little 
maidservant  who  opened  the  door.  In  a 
minute  or  two  she  returned,  and  invited  him 
to  follow  her  upstairs;  her  mistress  was  in, 
and  would  see  him  at  once.  She  led  the 
way  up  the  broad  staircase  into  a  room 
which  could,  perhaps,  be  most  aptly  de- 
scribed as  a  feminine  den.  The  walls, 
above  the  low  bookshelves  which  bordered 
the  whole  apartment,  were  hung  with  a 
medley  of  water-colours  and  photographs, 
water-colours  which  a  single  glance  showed 
him  were  good,  and  of  the  school  then  most 
in  vogue.  The  carpet  was  soft  and  thick, 
divans  and  easy  chairs  filled  with  cushions 

49 


BERENICE 

were  plentiful.  By  the  side  of  one  of  these, 
which  bore  signs  of  recent  occupation,  was 
a  reading  stand,  and  upon  it  a  Shakespeare, 
and  a  volume  of  his  own  critical  essays. 

To  him,  with  all  his  senses  quickened  by 
an  intense  curiosity,  there  seemed  to  hang 
about  the  atmosphere  of  the  room  that 
subtle  odour  of  femininity  which,  in  the 
case  of  a  man,  would  probably  have  been 
represented  by  tobacco  smoke.  A  Sevres 
jar  of  Neapolitan  violets  stood  upon  the 
table  near  the  divan.  Henceforth  the  per- 
fume of  violets  seemed  a  thing  apart  from 
the  perfume  of  all  other  flowers  to  the  man 
who  stood  there  waiting,  himself  with  a  few 
of  the  light  purple  blossoms  in  the  button- 
hole of  his  frock  coat. 


50 


CHAPTER   IV 

O  HE  came  to  him  so  noiselessly,  that  for 
a  moment  or  two  he  was  unaware  of 
her  entrance.  There  was  neither  the  rustle 
of  skirts  nor  the  sound  of  any  movement 
to  apprise  him  of  it,  yet  he  became  suddenly 
conscious  that  he  was  not  alone.  He 
turned  around  at  once  and  saw  her  stand- 
ing within  a  few  feet  of  him.  She  held  out 
her  hand  frankly. 

"  So  you  have  come,"  she  said ;  "  I 
thought  that  you  would.  But  then  you 
had  very  little  choice,  had  you? "  she  added 
with  a  little  laugh. 

She  passed  him,  and  deliberately  seated 
herself  amongst  a  pile  of  cushions  on  the 
divan  nearest  her  reading  stand.  For  the 
moment  he  neglected  her  gestured  invita- 

51 


BERENICE 

tion,  and  remained  standing,  looking  at 
her. 

"  I  was  very  glad  to  come,"  he  said 
simply. 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  You  were  afraid  of  my  threat.  You 
were  afraid  that  I  might  come  to  you. 
Well,  it  is  probable,  almost  certain  that  I 
should  have  come.  You  have  saved  your- 
self from  that,  at  any  rate." 

Although  the  situation  was  a  novel  one 
to  him,  he  was  not  in  the  least  embarrassed. 
He  was  altogether  too  sincere  to  be  pos- 
sessed of  any  self -consciousness.  He  found 
himself  at  last  actually  in  the  presence  of 
the  woman  who,  since  first  he  had  seen  her, 
months  ago,  driving  in  the  Park,  had  been 
constantly  in  his  thoughts,  and  he  began 
to  wonder  with  perfect  clearness  of  judg- 
ment wherein  lay  her  peculiar  fascination! 
That  she  was  handsome,  of  her  type,  went 
for  nothing.     The  world  was  full  of  more 

52 


BERENICE 

beautiful  women  whom  he  saw  day  by  day 
without  the  faintest  thrill  of  interest.  Be- 
sides, her  face  was  too  pale  and  her  form 
too  thin  for  exceptional  beauty.  There 
must  be  something  else,  —  something  about 
her  personality  which  refused  to  lend  itself 
to  any  absolute  analysis.  She  was  per- 
fectly dressed,  —  he  realized  that,  because  he 
was  never  afterwards  able  to  recall  exactly 
what  she  wore.  Her  eyes  were  soft  and 
dark  and  luminous,  —  soft  with  a  light  the 
power  of  which  he  was  not  slow  to  recognize. 

But  none  of  these  things  were  of  any 
important  account  in  reckoning  with  the 
woman.  He  became  convinced,  in  those 
few  moments  of  deliberate  observation,  that 
there  was  nothing  in  her  "  personnel  '* 
which  could  justify  her  reputation.  On 
the  whole  he  was  glad  of  it.  Any  other 
form  of  attraction  was  more  welcome  to 
him  than  a  purely  physical  one! 

"  First  of  all,"  she  began,  leaning  for- 
53 


BERENICE 

ward  and  looking  at  him  over  her  inter- 
laced fingers;  "  I  want  you  to  tell  me  thisl 
You  will  answer  me  faithfully,  I  know. 
What  did  you  think  of  my  writing  to  you, 
of  my  persistence?  Tell  me  exactly  what 
you  thought." 

"  I  was  surprised,"  he  answered ;  "  how 
could  I  help  it?  I  was  surprised,  too,"  he 
added,  "  to  find  that  I  wanted  very  much 
to  come." 

*'  The  women  whom  you  know,"  she  said 
quietly,  —  "I  suppose  you  do  know  some, 
—  would  not  have  done  such  a  thing. 
Some  people  say  that  I  am  mad!  One 
may  as  well  try  to  live  up  to  one's  reputa- 
tion; I  have  taken  a  little  of  the  hcense 
of  madness." 

"  It  was  unusual,  perhaps,"  he  admitted ; 
"  but  who  is  not  weary  of  usual  things  ?  I 
gathered  from  your  note  that  you  had  some- 
thing to  explain.  I  was  anxious  to  hear 
what  that  explanation  could  be," 

54 


BERENICE 

She  was  silent  for  a  moment,  her  eyes 
fixed  upon  vacancy,  a  faint  smile  at  the 
corners  of  her  lips. 

"  First,"  she  said,  "  let  me  tell  you  this. 
I  want  to  have  you  understand  why  I  was 
anxious  that  you  should  not  think  worse 
of  me  than  I  deserved.  I  am  rather  a  spoilt 
woman.  I  have  grown  used  to  having  my 
own  way;  I  wanted  to  know  you,  I  have 
wanted  to  for  some  time.  We  have  passed 
one  another  day  after  day;  I  knew  quite 
well  all  the  time  who  you  were,  and  it 
seemed  so  stupid!  Do  you  know  once  or 
twice  I  have  had  an  insane  desire  to  come 
right  up  to  your  chair  and  break  in  upon 
your  meditations,  —  hold  out  my  hand  and 
make  you  talk  to  me?  That  would  have 
been  worse  than  this,  would  it  not?  But 
I  firmly  believe  that  I  should  have  done  it 
some  day.  So  you  see  I  wrote  my  little 
note  in  self-defence." 

"  I  do  not  know  that  I  should  have  been 
55 


BERENICE 

so  completely  surprised  after  all,"  he  said. 
"  I,  too,  have  felt  something  of  what  you 
have  expressed.  I  have  been  interested  in 
your  comings  and  your  goings.  But  then 
you  knew  that,  or  you  would  never  have 
written  to  me." 

"  One  sacrifices  so  much,"  she  murmured, 
"  on  the  altars  of  the  modern  Goddess.  We 
live  in  such  a  tiny  compass,  —  nothing  ever 
happens.  It  is  only  psychologically  that 
one's  emotions  can  be  reached  at  all. 
Events  are  quite  out  of  date.  I  am  speak- 
ing from  a  woman's  point  of  view." 

"  You  should  have  lived,"  he  said,  smil- 
ing, "  in  the  days  of  Joan  of  Arc." 

"  No  doubt,"  she  answered,  "  I  should 
have  found  that  equally  dull.  What  I  was 
endeavouring  to  do  was,  first  of  all  to  plead 
some  justification  for  wanting  to  know  you. 
For  a  woman  there  is  nothing  left  but  the 
study  of  personalities." 

"  Mine,"  he  answered  with  a  faint  gleam 
56 


BERENICE 

in  his  eyes,  *'  is  very  much  at  your  serv- 
ice." 

"  I  am  going  to  take  you  at  your  word," 
she  warned  him. 

"  You  will  be  very  much  disappointed. 
I  am  perfectly  willing  to  be  dissected,  but 
the  result  will  be  inadequate." 

She  leaned  back  amongst  the  cushions 
and  looked  at  him  thoughtfully. 

"Listen,"  she  said;  "I  can  tell  you 
something  of  your  history,  as  you  will  see. 
I  want  you  to  fill  in  the  blanks." 

"  Mine,"  he  murmured,  "  will  be  the 
greater  task.  My  life  is  a  record  of  blank 
places.    The  history  is  to  come." 

"  This,"  she  said,  "  is  the  extent  of  my 
knowledge.  You  were  the  second  son  of 
Sir  Lionel  Matravers,  and  you  have  been 
an  orphan  since  you  were  very  young. 
You  were  meant  to  take  Holy  Orders,  but 
when  the  time  came  you  declined.  At  Ox- 
ford you  did  very  well  indeed.    You  estab- 

57 


BERENICE 

lished  a  brilliant  reputation  as  a  classical 
scholar,  and  you  became  a  fellow  of  St. 
John's. 

"  It  was  whilst  you  were  there  that  you 
wrote  Studies  in  Character.  Two  years 
ago,  I  do  not  know  why,  you  gave  up  your 
fellowship  and  came  to  London.  You  took 
up  the  editorship  of  a  Review  —  the  Bi- 
Weehly,  I  think  —  but  you  resigned  it  on 
a  matter  of  principle.  You  have  a  some- 
what curious  reputation.  The  Scrutineer 
invariably  alludes  to  you  as  the  Apostle 
of  ^stheticism.  You  are  reported  to  have 
fixed  views  as  to  the  conduct  of  life,  down 
even  to  its  most  trifling  details.  That 
sounds  unpleasant,  but  it  probably  isn't  al- 
together true.  .  .  .  Don't  interrupt,  please  I 
You  have  no  intimate  friends,  but  you  go 
sometimes  into  society.  You  are  apparently 
a  mixture  of  poet,  philosopher,  and  man  of 
fashion.  I  have  heard  you  spoken  of  more 
than  once  as  a  disciple  of  Epicurus.     You 

58 


BERENICE 

also,  in  the  course  of  your  literary  work, 
review  novels  —  unfortunately  for  me  — 
and  six  months  ago  you  were  the  cause  of 
my  nearly  crying  my  eyes  out.  It  was  per- 
haps silly  of  me  to  attempt,  without  any 
literary  experience,  to  write  a  modern  story, 
but  my  own  life  supplied  the  motive,  and 
at  least  I  was  faithful  to  what  I  felt  and 
knew.  No  one  else  has  ever  said  such  cruel 
things  about  my  work. 

"  Woman-like,  you  see,  I  repay  my  in- 
juries by  becoming  interested  in  you.  If 
you  had  praised  my  book,  I  daresay  I 
should  never  have  thought  of  you  at  all. 
Then  there  is  one  thing  more.  Every  day 
you  sit  in  the  Park  close  to  where  I  stop, 
and  —  you  look  at  me.  It  seems  as  though 
we  had  often  spoken  there.  Shall  I  tell 
you  what  I  have  been  vain  enough  to  think 
sometimes? 

"  I  have  watched  you  from  a  distance, 
often  before  you  have  seen  me.     You  al- 

59 


BEEENICE 

ways  sit  in  the  same  attitude,  your  eye- 
brows are  a  little  contracted,  there  is  gen- 
erally the  ghost  of  a  smile  upon  your  lips. 
You  are  like  an  outsider  who  has  come  to 
look  upon  a  brilHant  show.  I  could  fancy 
that  you  have  clothed  yourself  in  the  per- 
sonality of  that  young  Roman  noble  whose 
name  you  have  made  so  famous,  and  from 
another  age  were  gazing  tolerantly  and 
even  kindly  upon  the  folly  and  the  pag- 
eantry which  have  survived  for  two  thou- 
sand years.  And  then  I  have  taken  my 
little  place  in  the  procession,  and  I  have 
fancied  that  a  subtle  change  has  stolen  into 
your  face.  You  have  looked  at  me  as 
gravely  as  ever,  but  no  longer  as  an  im- 
personal spectator. 

"  It  is  as  though  I  have  seemed  a  live 
person  to  you,  and  the  others,  mummies. 
Once  the  change  came  so  swiftly  that  I 
smiled  at  you,  —  I  could  not  help  it,  —  and 
you  looked  away." 

60 


BERENICE 

"  I  remember  it  distinctly,"  he  inter- 
rupted. "  I  thought  the  smile  was  for  some 
one  behind  me." 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  It  was  for  you.  Now  I  have  finished. 
Fill  in  the  blanks,  please." 

He  was  content  to  answer  her  in  the 
same  strain.  The  effect  of  her  complete 
naturalness  was  already  upon  him. 

"  So  far  as  my  personal  history  is  con- 
cerned," he  told  her,  "  you  are  wonderfully 
correct.  There  is  nothing  more  to  be  said 
about  it.  I  gave  up  my  fellowship  at  Ox- 
ford because  I  have  always  been  convinced 
of  the  increasing  narrowness  and  limita- 
tions of  purely  academic  culture  and  schol- 
arship. I  was  afraid  of  what  I  should  be- 
come as  an  old  man,  of  what  I  was  already 
growing  into.  I  wanted  to  have  a  closer 
grip  upon  human  things,  to  be  in  more  sym- 
pathetic relations  with  the  great  world  of 
my  fellow-men.     Can  you  understand  me, 

61 


BEBENICE 

I  wonder?  The  influences  of  a  university 
town  are  too  purely  scholarly  to  produce 
literary  work  of  wide  human  interest.  Lon- 
don had  always  fascinated  me  —  though  as 
yet  I  have  met  with  many  disappointments. 
As  to  the  Bi-Weehly^  it  was  my  first  idea 
to  undertake  no  fixed  literary  work,  and  it 
was  only  after  great  pressure  that  I  took 
it  for  a  time.  As  you  know,  my  editorship 
was  a  failure." 

He  paused  for  a  moment  or  two,  and 
looked  steadily  at  her.  He  was  anxious  to 
watch  the  effect  of  what  he  was  going  to 
say. 

"  You  have  mentioned  my  review  upon 
your  novel  in  the  Bi-Weekly,  I  cannot  say 
that  I  am  sorry  I  wrote  it.  I  never  at- 
tacked a  book  with  so  much  pleasure.  But 
I  am  very  sorry  indeed  that  you  should 
have  written  it.  With  your  gifts  you  could 
have  given  to  the  world  something  better 
than  a  mere  psychological  debauch!" 

62 


BERENICE 

She  laughed  softly,  but  genuinely. 

"  I  adore  sincerity,"  she  exclaimed,  "  and 
it  is  so  many  years  since  I  was  actually 
scolded.  A  '  psychological  debauch '  is  de- 
lightful. But  I  cannot  help  my  views,  can  I  ? 
My  experiences  were  made  for  me!  I  be- 
came the  creature  of  circumstances.  No  one 
is  morally  responsible  for  their  opinions." 

"  There  are  things,"  he  said,  "  which 
find  their  way  into  our  thoughts  and  con- 
sciousness, but  of  which  it  would  be  con- 
sidered flagrantly  bad  taste  to  speak.  And 
there  are  things  in  the  world  which  exist, 
which  have  existed  from  time  immemorial, 
the  evil  legacy  of  countless  generations,  of 
which  it  seems  to  me  to  be  equally  bad  taste 
to  write.  Art  has  a  limitless  choice  of  sub- 
jects. I  would  not  have  you  sully  your 
fine  gifts  by  writing  of  anything  save  of 
the  beautiful." 

"  This  is  rank  hedonism,"  she  laughed. 
"  It  is  a  survival  of  your  academic  days." 

63 


BERENICE 

"  Some  day,"  he  answered,  "  we  will  talk 
more  fully  of  this.  It  is  a  little  early  for 
us  to  discuss  a  subject  upon  which  we  hold 
such  opposite  views." 

"  You  are  afraid  that  we  might  quar- 
rel!" 

He  shook  his  head. 

"  No,  not  that!  Only  as  I  am  something 
of  an  idealist,  and  you,  I  suppose,  have 
placed  yourself  amongst  the  ranks  of  the 
realists,  we  should  scarcely  meet  upon  a 
common  basis.  But  will  you  forgive  me 
if  I  say  so  —  I  am  very  sure  that  some  day 
you  will  be  a  deserter?" 

"And  why?" 

"  I  do  not  know  anything  of  your  his- 
tory," he  continued  gently,  "  nor  am  I 
asking  for  your  confidence.  Only  in  your 
story  there  was  a  personal  note,  which 
seemed  to  me  to  somehow  explain  the  bit- 
terness and  directness  with  which  you  wrote 
—  of  certain  subjects.     I  think  that  you 

64 


••  Friends,"  she  repeated,  with  a  certain  wistfulness 
in  her  tone 


BERENICE 

yourself  have  had  trouble  —  or  perhaps  a 
dear  friend  has  suffered,  and  her  grief  has 
become  yours.  There  was  a  little  poison 
in  your  pen,  I  think.  Never  mind!  We 
shall  be  friends,  and  I  shall  watch  it  pass 
away!" 

"  Friends,"  she  repeated  with  a  certain 
wistfulness  in  her  tone.  "  But  have  you 
forgotten  —  what  you  came  for?" 

"  I  do  not  think,"  he  said  slowly,  "  that 
it  is  of  much  consequence." 

"  But  it  is,"  she  insisted.  "  You  asked 
me  distinctly  where  I  wished  to  be  driven 
to  from  the  theatre,  and  I  told  you  — 
home!  All  the  time  I  knew  that  I  was 
going  to  have  supper  with  Mr.  Thorndyke 
at  the  Milan!    Morally  I  lied  to  you!" 

"Why?"  he  asked. 

"  I  cannot  tell  you,"  she  answered ;  "  it 
was  an  impulse.  I  thought  nothing  of  ac- 
cepting the  man*s  invitation.  You  know 
him,  I  daresay.     He  is  a  millionaire,  and 

67 


BERENICE 

it  is  his  money  which  supports  the  theatre. 
He  has  asked  me  several  times,  and  al- 
though personally  I  dislike  him,  he  has,  of 
course,  a  certain  claim  upon  my  acquaint- 
ance. I  have  made  excuses  once  or  twice. 
Last  night  was  the  first  time  I  have  ever 
been  out  anywhere  with  him.  I  do  not  of 
course  pretend  to  be  in  the  least  conven- 
tional—  I  have  always  permitted  myself 
the  utmost  liberty  of  action.  Yet  —  I  had 
wanted  so  much  to  know  you  —  I  was 
afraid  of  prejudicing  you.  .  .  .  After  all, 
you  see,  I  have  no  explanation.  It  was 
just  an  impulse.  I  have  hated  myself  for 
it;  but  it  is  done!  " 

"  It  was,"  he  said,  "  a  trifle  of  no  im- 
portance.    We  will  forget  it." 

A  gleam  of  gratitude  shone  in  her  dark 
eyes.  Her  head  drooped  a  little.  He  fan- 
cied that  her  voice  was  not  quite  so  steady. 

"  It  is  good,"  she  said,  "  to  hear  you  say 
that" 

68 


BERENICE 

He  looked  around  the  room,  and  back 
into  her  face.  Some  dim  foreknowledge 
of  what  was  to  come  between  them  seemed 
to  flash  before  his  eyes.  It  was  like  a  sud- 
den glimpse  into  that  unseen  world  so  close 
at  hand,  in  which  he  —  that  Roman  noble 
—  had  at  any  rate  implicitly  believed. 
There  was  a  faint  smile  upon  his  face  as 
his  eyes  met  hers. 

"  At  least,"  he  said,  "  I  shall  be  able  to 
come  and  talk  with  you  now  at  the  railing, 
instead  of  watching  you  from  my  chair. 
For  you  were  quite  right  in  what  you  said 
just  now.  I  have  watched  for  you  every 
day  —  for  many  days." 

"  You  will  be  able  to  come,"  she  said 
gravely,  *'  if  you  care  to.  You  mix  so  lit- 
tle with  the  men  who  love  to  talk  scandal 
of  a  woman,  that  you  may  never  have  heard 
them  —  talk  of  me.  But  they  do,  I  know  I 
I  hear  all  about  it  —  it  used  to  amuse  me  I 
You  have  the  reputation  of  ultra  exclusive- 

69 


BERENICE 

ness  I  If  you  and  I  are  known  to  be  friends, 
you  may  have  to  risk  losing  it." 

His  brows  were  slightly  contracted,  and 
he  had  half  closed  his  eyes  —  a  habit  of  his 
when  anything  was  said  which  offended  his 
taste. 

"  I  wonder  whether  you  would  mind  not 
talking  like  that,"  he  said. 

"  Why  not?  I  would  not  have  you  hear 
these  things  from  other  people.  It  is  best 
to  be  truthful,  is  it  not?  To  run  no  risk 
of  any  misunderstandings." 

"  There  is  no  fear  of  anything  of  that 
sort,"  he  said  calmly.  "  I  do  not  pretend 
to  be  a  magician  or  a  diviner,  yet  I  think 
I  know  you  for  what  you  are,  and  it  is 
sufficient.     Some  day " 

He  broke  off  in  the  middle  of  a  sentence. 
The  door  had  opened.  A  man  stood  upon 
the  threshold.  The  servant  announced  him 
—  Mr.  Thorndyke. 

Matravers  rose  at  once  to  his  feet.  He 
70 


BERENICE 

had  a  habit  —  the  outcome,  doubtless,  of 
his  epicurean  tenets,  of  leaving  at  once, 
and  at  any  costs,  society  not  wholly  agree- 
able to  him.  He  bowed  coldly  to  the  man 
who  was  already  greeting  Berenice,  and 
who  was  carrying  a  great  bunch  of  Parma 
violets. 

Mr.  Thorndyke  was  evidently  astonished 
at  his  presence  —  and  not  agreeably. 

"  Have  you  come,  Mr.  Matravers,"  he 
asked  coldly,  "  to  make  your  peace? " 

"  I  am  not  aware,"  Matravers  answered 
calmly,  "  of  any  reason  why  I  should  do 
so." 

Mr.  Thorndyke  raised  his  eyebrows,  and 
drew  an  afternoon  paper  from  his  pocket. 

"  This  is  your  writing,  is  it  not? "  he 
asked. 

Matravers  glanced  at  the  paragraph. 

"  Certainly!  " 

Mr.  Thorndyke  threw  the  paper  upon 
the  table. 

71 


BERENICE 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  I  have  no  doubt  it  is 
an  excellent  piece  of  literary  work  —  a  sat- 
ire I  suppose  you  would  call  it  —  and  I 
must  congratulate  you  upon  its  complete 
success.  I  don't  mind  running  the  theatre 
at  a  financial  loss,  but  I  have  a  distinct 
objection  to  being  made  a  laughing  stock 
of.  I  suppose  this  paper  appeared  about 
two  hours  ago,  and  already  I  can't  move 
a  yard  without  having  to  suffer  the  con- 
dolences of  some  sympathizing  ass.  I  shall 
close  the  theatre  next  week." 

"  That  is  naturally,"  Matravers  said,  "  a 
matter  of  complete  indifference  to  me.  In 
the  cause  of  art  I  should  say  that  you  will 
do  well,  unless  you  can  select  a  play  from 
a  very  different  source.  What  I  wrote  of 
the  performance  last  night,  I  wrote  accord- 
ing to  my  convictions.  You,"  he  added, 
turning  to  Berenice,  "  will  at  least  believe 
that,  I  am  sure! " 

"  Most  certainly  I  do,"  she  assured  him, 
72 


BERENICE 

holding  out  her  hand.  "  Must  you  really 
go?  You  will  come  and  see  me  again  — 
very  soon? " 

He  bowed  over  her  fingers,  and  then 
their  eyes  met  for  a  moment.  She  was 
very  pale,  but  she  looked  at  him  bravely. 
He  realized  suddenly  that  Mr.  Thomdyke's 
threat  was  a  serious  blow  to  her. 

"  I  am  very  sorry,"  he  said.  "  You  will 
not  bear  me  any  ill  will? " 

"None!"  she  answered;  "you  may  be 
sure  of  that! " 

She  walked  with  him  to  the  open  door, 
outside  which  the  servant  was  waiting  to 
show  him  downstairs. 

"  You  will  come  and  see  me  again  — 
very  soon?  "  she  repeated. 

"  Yes,"  he  answered  simply,  "  if  I  may 
I  shall  come  again!  I  will  come  as  soon 
as  you  care  to  have  me  1 " 


73 


CHAPTER   V 

ly/TATRAVERS  passed  out  into  the 
street  with  a  curious  admixture  of 
sensations  in  a  mind  usually  so  free  from 
any  confusion  of  sentiments  or  ideas.  The 
few  words  which  he  had  been  compelled  to 
exchange  with  Thorndyke  had  grated  very 
much  against  his  sense  of  what  was  seemly; 
he  was  on  the  whole  both  repelled  and  fas- 
cinated by  the  incidents  of  this  visit  of  his. 
Yet  as  he  walked  leisurely  homewards 
through  the  bright,  crowded  streets,  he 
recognized  the  existence  of  that  strange 
personal  charm  in  Berenice  of  which  so 
many  people  had  written  and  spoken.  He 
himself  had  become  subject  to  it  in  some 
slight  degree,  not  enough,  indeed,  to  en- 
gross his  mind,  yet  enough  to  prevent  any 

74 


BEEENICB 

feeling  of  disappointment  at  the  result  of 
his  visit. 

She  was  not  an  ordinary  woman  —  she 
was  not  an  ordinarily  clever  woman.  She 
did  not  belong  to  any  type  with  which  he 
was  acquainted.  She  must  for  ever  occupy 
a  place  of  her  own  in  his  thoughts  and  in 
his  estimation.  It  was  a  place  very  well 
defined,  he  told  himself,  and  by  no  means 
within  that  inner  circle  of  his  brain  and 
heart  wherein  lay  the  few  things  in  life 
sweet  and  precious  to  him.  The  vague  ex- 
citement of  the  early  morning  seemed  to 
him  now,  as  he  moved  calmly  along  the 
crowded,  fashionable  thoroughfare,  a  thing 
altogether  unreal  and  unnatural.  He  had 
been  in  an  emotional  frame  of  mind,  he 
told  himself  with  a  quiet  smile,  when  the 
sight  of  those  few  lines  in  a  handwriting 
then  unknown  had  so  curiously  stirred  him. 
Now  that  he  had  seen  and  spoken  to  her, 
her  personality  would  recede  to  its  proper 

75 


BEEENICB 

proportions,  the  old  philosophic  calm  which 
hung  around  him  in  his  studious  life  like  a 
mantle  would  have  no  further  disturbance. 

And  then  he  suffered  a  rude  shock!  As 
he  passed  the  corner  of  a  street,  the  per- 
fume of  Neapolitan  violets  came  floating 
out  from  a  florist's  shop  upon  the  warm 
sunlit  air.  Every  fibre  of  his  being  quiv- 
ered with  a  sudden  emotion!  The  interior 
of  that  little  room  was  before  him,  and  a 
woman's  eyes  looked  into  his.  He  clenched 
his  hands  and  walked  swiftly  on,  with  pale 
face  and  rigid  hps,  hke  a  man  oppressed  by 
some  acute  physical  pain. 

There  must  be  nothing  of  this  for  him! 
It  was  part  of  a  world  which  was  not  his 
world  —  of  which  he  must  never  even  be  a 
temporary  denizen.  The  thing  passed  away! 
With  studious  care  he  fixed  his  mind  upon 
trifles.  There  was  a  crease  in  his  silk  hat, 
clearly  visible  as  he  glanced  at  his  reflec- 
tion in  a  plate-glass  window.     He  turned 

76 


BERENICE 

into  Scott's,  and  waited  whilst  it  was 
ironed.  Then  he  walked  homewards  and 
spent  the  remainder  of  the  day  carefully 
revising  a  bundle  of  proofs  which  he  found 
on  his  table  fresh  from  the  printer. 

On  the  following  morning  he  lunched  at 
his  club.  Somehow,  although  he  was  in  no 
sense  of  the  word  an  unpopular  man,  it 
was  a  rare  thing  for  any  one  to  seek  his 
company  uninvited.  The  scholarly  exclu- 
siveness  of  his  Oxford  days  had  not  been 
altogether  brushed  off  in  this  contact  with 
a  larger  and  more  spontaneous  social  life, 
and  he  figured  in  a  world  which  would 
gladly  have  known  more  of  him,  as  a  man 
of  courteous  but  severe  reserve. 

To-day  he  occupied  his  usual  round  table 
set  in  an  alcove  before  a  tall  window.  For 
a  recluse,  he  always  found  a  singular  pleas- 
ure in  watching  the  faces  of  the  people  in 
that   broad    living    stream,    little    units    in 

77 


BERENICE 

the  wheeling  cycle  of  humanity  of  which 
he  too  felt  himself  to  be  a  part;  but  to-day 
his  eyes  were  idle,  and  his  sympathies  ob- 
structed. Although  a  pronounced  epicure 
in  both  food  and  drink,  he  passed  a  new 
and  delicate  entree,  and  not  only  ordered 
the  wrong  claret,  but  drank  it  without  a 
grimace.  The  world  of  his  sensations  had 
been  rudely  disturbed.  For  the  moment 
his  sense  of  proportions  was  at  fault,  and 
before  luncheon  was  over  it  received  a  fur- 
ther shock.  A  handsomely  appointed  drag 
rattled  past  the  club  on  its  way  into  Picca- 
dilly. The  woman  who  occupied  the  front 
seat  turned  to  look  at  the  window  as  they 
passed,  with  some  evident  curiosity  —  and 
their  eyes  met.  Matravers  set  down  the 
glass,  which  he  had  been  in  the  act  of  rais- 
ing to  his  lips,  untasted. 

"Berenice  and  her  Father  Confessor!" 
he  heard  some  one  remark  lightly  from  the 
next  table.     "  Pity  some  one  can't  teach 

78 


BERENICE 

Thomdyke  how  to  drive!  He's  a  disgrace 
to  the  Four-in-hand  I  " 

It  was  Berenice!  The  sight  of  her  in 
such  intimate  association  with  a  man  ut- 
terly distasteful  to  him  was  one  before 
which  he  winced  and  suffered.  He  was 
aware  of  a  new  and  altogether  undesired 
experience.  To  rid  himself  of  it  with  all 
possible  speed,  he  finished  his  lunch  abruptly, 
and  lighting  a  cigarette,  started  back  to  his 
rooms. 

On  the  way  he  came  face  to  face  with 
Ellison,  and  the  two  men  stood  together 
upon  the  pavement  for  a  moment  or  two. 

"  I  am  not  quite  sure,*'  Ellison  remarked 
with  a  little  grimace,  "  whether  I  want  to 
speak  to  you  or  not!  What  on  earth  has 
kindled  the  destructive  spirit  in  you  to  such 
an  extent?  Every  one  is  talking  of  your 
attack  upon  the  New  Theatre !  " 

"  I  was  sent,"  Matravers  answered, 
"  with  a  free  hand  to  write  an  honest  crit- 

79 


BERENICE 

icism  —  and  I  did  it.  Istein's  work  may 
have  some  merit,  but  it  is  unclean  work. 
It  is  not  fit  for  the  Enghsh  stage." 

"  It  is  exceedingly  unlikely,"  Ellison  re- 
marked, "  that  the  English  stage  will  know 
him  any  more!  No  play  could  survive  such 
an  onslaught  as  yours.  I  hear  that  Thorn- 
dyke  is  going  to  close  the  theatre." 

"  If  it  was  opened,"  Matravers  said, 
"  for  the  purpose  of  presenting  such  work 
as  this  latest  production,  the  sooner  it  is 
closed  the  better." 

Ellison  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  It  is  a  large  subject,"  he  said,  "  and  I 
am  not  sure  that  we  are  of  one  mind.  We 
will  not  discuss  it.  At  any  rate,  I  am  very 
sorry  for  Berenice!" 

"  I  do  not  think,"  Matravers  said  in 
measured  tones,  "  that  you  need  be  sorry 
for  her.  With  her  gifts  she  will  scarcely 
remain  long  without  an  engagement.  I 
trust  that  she  may  secure  one  which  will 

80 


BERENICE 

not  involve  the  prostitution  of  her  talent." 
Ellison  laughed  shortly.  He  had  an  im- 
mense admiration  for  Matravers,  but  just 
at  present  he  was  a  little  out  of  temper 
with  him. 

"  You  admit  her  talent,  then? "  he  re- 
marked.    "  I  am  glad  of  that! " 

"  I  am  not  sure,"  Matravers  said,  "  that 
talent  is  the  proper  word  to  use.  One  might 
almost  call  it  genius." 

Ellison  was  considerably  mollified. 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  you  say  so,"  he  de- 
clared. "  At  the  same  time  I  am  afraid  her 
position  will  be  rather  an  awkward  one. 
She  will  lose  some  money  by  the  closing 
of  the  theatre,  and  I  don't  exactly  see  what 
London  house  is  open  for  her  just  at  pres- 
ent. These  actor-managers  are  all  so  clan- 
nish, and  they  have  their  own  women." 

"  I  am  sorry,"  Matravers  said  thought- 
fully ;  "  at  the  same  time  I  cannot  believe 
that  she  will  remain  very  long  undiscov- 

81 


BERENICE 

ered!  Good  afternoon!  I  am  forgetting 
that  I  have  some  writing  to  do." 

Matravers  walked  slowly  back  to  his 
rooms,  filled  with  a  new  and  fascinating 
idea  which  Ellison's  words  had  suddenly 
suggested  to  him.  If  it  was  true  that  his 
pen  had  done  her  this  ill  turn,  did  he  not 
owe  her  some  reparation?  It  would  be  a 
very  pleasant  way  to  pay  his  debt  and  a 
very  simple  one.  By  the  time  he  had 
reached  his  destination  the  idea  had  taken 
definite  hold  of  him. 

For  several  hours  he  worked  at  the  re- 
vision of  a  certain  manuscript,  polishing 
and  remodelling  with  infinite  care  and 
pains.  Not  even  content  with  the  correct 
and  tasteful  arrangement  of  his  sentences, 
he  read  them  over  to  himself  aloud,  lest  by 
any  chance  there  should  have  crept  into 
them  some  trick  of  alliteration,  or  juxta- 
position of  words  not  entireh^^  musical.  In 
his  work  he  gained,  or  seemed  to  gain,  a 

82 


At  half-past  four  his  servant  brought  in  a  small 
tea-equipage 


BERENICE 

complete  absorption.  The  cloudy  disquiet 
of  the  last  few  hours  appeared  to  have 
passed  away,  —  to  have  been,  indeed,  only 
a  fugitive  and  transitory  thing. 

At  half -past  four  his  servant  brought  in 
a  small  tea-equipage  —  a  silver  tray,  with 
an  old  blue  Worcester  teapot  and  cup,  and 
a  quaintly  cut  glass  cream- jug.  He  made 
his  tea,  and  drank  it  with  his  pen  still  in 
his  hand.  He  had  scarcely  turned  back  to 
his  work,  before  the  same  servant  re-entered 
carrying  a  frock  coat,  an  immaculately 
brushed  silk  hat,  and  a  fresh  bunch  of 
Neapolitan  violets.  For  a  moment  Ma- 
travers  hesitated;  then  he  laid  down  his 
pen,  changed  his  coat,  and  once  more  passed 
out  into  the  streets,  more  brilliant  than  ever 
now  with  the  afternoon  sunshine.  He 
joined  the  throng  of  people  leisurely  mak- 
ing their  way  towards  the  Park! 


85 


CHAPTER   VI 

TJpOR  nearly  half  an  hour  he  sat  in  his 
usual  place  under  the  trees,  watching 
with  indifferent  eyes  the  constant  stream  of 
carriages  passing  along  the  drive.  It 
seemed  to  him  only  a  few  hours  since  he 
had  sat  there  before,  almost  in  the  same 
spot,  a  solitary  figure  in  the  cold,  grey  twi- 
light, yet  watching  then,  even  as  he  was 
watching  now,  for  that  small  victoria  with 
its  single  occupant  whose  soft  dark  eyes 
had  met  his  so  often  with  a  frank  curiosity 
which  she  had  never  troubled  to  conceal. 
Something  of  that  same  perturbation  of 
spirit  which  had  driven  him  then  out  into 
the  dawn-lit  streets,  was  upon  him  once 
more,  only  with  a  very  real  and  tangible 
difference.       The     grey     half-lights,     the 

86 


BERENICE 

ghostly  shadows,  and  the  faint  wind  sound- 
ing in  the  tree-tops  Hke  the  rising  and  fall- 
ing of  a  midnight  sea  upon  some  lonely 
shore,  had  given  to  his  early  morning 
dreams  an  indefiniteness  which  they  could 
scarcely  hope  to  possess  now.  He  himself 
was  a  living  unit  of  this  gay  and  brilliant 
world,  whose  conversation  and  light  laugh- 
ter filled  the  sunlit  air  around  him,  whose 
skirts  were  brushing  against  his  knees,  and 
whose  jargon  fell  upon  his  ears  with  a 
familiar  and  a  kindly  sound.  There  was  no 
possibility  here  for  such  a  wave  of  passion, 
—  he  could  call  it  nothing  else,  —  as  had 
swept  through  him,  when  he  had  first  read 
that  brief  message  from  the  woman,  who 
had  already  become  something  of  a  disturb- 
ing element  in  his  seemly  life.  Yet  under 
a  calm  exterior  he  was  conscious  of  a  dis- 
tinct tremor  of  excitement  when  her  car- 
riage drew  up  within  a  few  feet  of  him, 
and   obeying  her  mute  but  smiling   com- 

87 


BERENICE 

mand,  he  rose  and  offered  his  hand  as  she 
stepped  out  on  to  the  path. 

"  This,"  she  remarked,  resting  her  dain- 
tily gloved  fingers  for  a  moment  in  his,  "  is 
the  beginning  of  a  new  order  of  things. 
Do  you  realize  that  only  the  day  before 
yesterday  we  passed  one  another  here  with 
a  polite  stare? " 

"  I  remember  it,"  he  answered,  "  per- 
fectly.   Long  may  the  new  order  last." 

"  But  it  is  not  going  to  last  long  —  with 
me  at  any  rate,"  she  said,  laughing.  "  Don't 
you  know  that  I  am  almost  ruined?  Mr. 
Thorndyke  is  going  to  close  the  theatre. 
He  says  that  we  have  been  losing  money 
every  week.  I  shall  have  to  sell  my  horses, 
and  go  and  live  in  the  suburbs." 

"  I  hope,"  he  said  fervently,  "  that  you 
will  not  find  it  so  bad  as  that." 

"  Of  course,"  she  remarked,  "  you  know 
that  yours  is  the  hand  which  has  given  us 
our  death-blow.    I  have  just  read  your  no- 


BERENICE 

tice.  It  is  a  brilliant  piece  of  satirical  writ- 
ing, of  course,  but  need  you  have  been  quite 
so  severe?  Don't  you  regret  your  handi- 
work a  little? " 

"  I  cannot,"  he  answered  deliberately. 
'*  On  the  contrary,  I  feel  that  I  have  done 
you  a  service.  If  you  do  not  agree  with 
me  to-day,  the  time  will  certainly  come 
when  you  will  do  so.  You  have  a  gift 
which  delighted  me:  you  are  really  an  ac- 
tress; you  are  one  of  very  few." 

"That  is  a  kind  speech,"  she  answered; 
"  but  even  if  there  is  truth  in  it,  I  am  as 
yet  quite  unrecognized.  There  is  no  other 
theatre  open  to  me;  you  and  I  look  upon 
Istein  and  his  work  from  a  different  point 
of  view;  but  even  if  you  are  right,  the  part 
of  Herdrine  suited  me.  I  was  beginning 
to  get  some  excellent  notices.  If  we  could 
have  kept  the  thing  going  for  only  a  few 
weeks  longer,  I  think  that  I  might  have 
estabhshed  some  sort  of  a  reputation." 

89 


BERENICE 

He  sighed. 

"A  reputation,  perhaps,"  he  admitted; 
"  but  not  of  the  best  order.  You  do  not 
wish  to  be  known  only  as  the  portrayer  of 
unnatural  passions,  the  interpreter  of  dis- 
eased desires.  It  would  be  an  ephemeral 
reputation.  It  might  lead  you  into  many 
strange  byways,  but  it  would  never  help 
you  to  rise.  Art  is  above  all  things  cath- 
olic, and  universal.  You  may  be  a  perfect 
Herdrine;  but  Herdrine  herself  is  but  a 
night  weed  —  a  thing  of  no  account.  Even 
you  cannot  make  her  natural.  She  is  the 
puppet  of  a  man's  fantasy.  She  is  never 
a  woman." 

"  I  suppose,"  she  said  sorrowfully,  "  that 
your  judgment  is  the  true  one.  Yet  —  but 
we  will  talk  of  something  else.  How 
strange  to  be  walking  here  with  you! " 

Berenice  was  always  a  much-observed 
woman,  but  to-day  she  seemed  to  attract 
more  even  than  ordinary  attention.     Her 

90 


BERENICE 

personality,  her  toilette,  which  was  superb, 
and  her  companion,  were  all  alike  interest- 
ing to  the  slowly  moving  throng  of  men 
and  women  amongst  whom  they  were 
threading  their  way.  The  attitude  of  her 
sex  towards  Berenice  was  in  a  certain  sense 
a  paradox.  She  was  distinctly  the  most  tal- 
ented and  the  most  original  of  all  the  "  pet- 
ticoat apostles,"  as  the  very  man  who  was 
now  walking  by  her  side  had  scornfully  de- 
scribed the  little  band  of  women  writers 
who  were  accused  of  trying  to  launch  upon 
society  a  new  type  of  their  own  sex.  Her 
last  novel  was  flooding  all  the  bookstalls; 
and  if  not  of  the  day,  was  certainly  the 
book  of  the  hour.  She  herself,  known  be- 
fore only  as  a  brilhant  journalist  writing 
under  a  curious  nom  de  plume ^  had  sud- 
denly become  one  of  the  most  marked  fig- 
ures in  London  life.  Yet  she  had  not  gone 
so  far  as  other  writers  who  had  dealt  with 
the  same  subject.    ^Marriage,  she  had  dared 

91 


BERENICE 

to  write,  had  become  the  whitewashing  of 
the  impure,  the  sanctifying  of  the  vicious! 
But  she  had  not  added  the  almost  natural 
corollary,  —  therefore  let  there  be  no  mar- 
riage. On  the  contrary,  marriage  in  the 
ideal  she  had  written  of  as  the  most  won- 
derful and  the  most  beautiful  thing  in  life, 
—  only  marriage  in  the  ideal  did  not  exist. 
She  had  never  posed  as  a  woman  with 
a  mission!  She  formulated  nowhere  any 
scheme  for  the  re-organization  of  those  so- 
cial conditions  whose  bases  she  had  very  elo- 
quently and  very  trenchantly  held  to  be 
rotten  and  impure.  She  had  written  as  a 
prophet  of  woe!  She  had  preached  only 
destruction,  and  from  the  first  she  had  left 
her  readers  curious  as  to  what  sexual  sys- 
tem could  possibly  replace  the  old.  The 
thing  which  happened  was  inevitable.  The 
amazing  demand  for  her  book  was  exactly 
in  inverse  proportion  to  its  popularity 
amongst  her  sex.    The  crusade  against  men 

92 


BERENICE 

was  well!  Admittedly  they  were  a  bad  lot, 
and  needed  to  be  told  of  it.  A  little  self- 
assertion  on  behalf  of  his  superior  was  a 
thing  to  be  encouraged  and  applauded. 
But  a  crusade  against  marriage!  Berenice 
must  be  a  most  abandoned,  as  well  as  a 
most  immoral,  woman!  No  one  who  even 
hinted  at  the  doctrine  of  love  without  mar- 
riage could  be  altogether  respectable.  Not 
that  Berenice  had  ever  done  that.  Still,  she 
had  written  of  marriage,  —  the  usual  run 
of  marriages,  —  from  a  woman's  point  of 
view,  as  a  very  hateful  thing.  What  did 
she  require,  then,  of  her  sex?  To  live  and 
die  old  maids,  whilst  men  became  regen- 
erated? It  was  too  absurd.  There  were  a 
good  many  curious  things  said,  and  it  was 
certainly  true,  that  since  she  had  gone  upon 
the  stage  her  toilette  and  equipage  were 
unrivalled.  Berenice  looked  into  the  eyes 
of  the  women  whom  she  met  day  by  day, 
and  she  read  their  verdict.     But  if  she  suf- 

93 


BERENICE 

fered,  she  said  not  a  word  to  any  of 
it. 

They  passed  out  from  the  glancing  shad- 
ows of  the  trees  towards  the  Piccadilly  en- 
trance. Here  they  paused  for  a  moment 
and  stood  together  looking  down  the  drive. 
The  sunlight  seemed  to  touch  with  quiver- 
ing fire  the  brilliant  phantasmagoria.  Bere- 
nice was  serious.  Her  dark  eyes  swept  down 
the  broad  path  and  her  under-lip  quivered. 

"  It  is  this,"  she  exclaimed,  with  a  slight 
forward  movement  of  her  parasol,  "  which 
makes  me  long  for  an  earthquake.  Can 
one  do  anything  for  women  like  that? 
They  are  not  the  creations  of  a  God;  they 
are  the  parasitical  images  of  type.  Only 
it  is  a  very  small  type  and  a  very  large 
reproduction.  Why  do  I  say  these  things 
to  you,  I  wonder?  You  are  against  me, 
too!    But  then  you  are  not  a  woman! " 

"  I  am  not  against  you  in  your  detesta- 
tion of  type,"  he  answered.     "  The  whole 

94 


BERENICE 

world  of  our  sex  as  well  as  yours  is  full  of 
worn-out  and  effete  reproductions  of  an 
unworthy  model.  It  is  this  intolerable 
sameness  which  suffocates  all  thought.  One 
meets  it  everywhere;  the  deep  melancholy 
of  our  days  is  its  fruit.  But  the  children 
of  this  generation  will  never  feel  it.  The 
taste  of  life  between  their  teeth  wiU  be 
neither  like  ashes  nor  green  figs.  They  are 
numbed." 

She  flashed  a  look  almost  of  anger  upon 
him. 

"  Yet  you  have  ranged  yourself  upon 
their  side.  When  my  story  first  appeared, 
its  fate  hung  for  days  in  the  balance. 
Women  had  not  made  up  their  minds  how 
to  take  it.  It  came  into  your  hands  for 
review.  Well!  you  did  not  spare  it,  did 
you?  It  was  you  who  turned  the  scale. 
Your  denunciation  became  the  keynote  of 
popular  opinion  concerning  me.  The 
women   for  whose  sake  I   had  written  it, 

95 


BERENICE 

that  they  might  at  least  strike  one  blow  for 
freedom,  took  it  with  a  virtuous  shudder 
from  the  hands  of  their  daughters.  I  was 
pronounced  unwholesome  and  depraved; 
even  my  personal  character  was  torn  into 
shreds.  How  odd  it  all  seems ! "  she  added, 
with  a  light,  mirthless  laugh.  "  It  was  you 
who  put  into  their  hands  the  weapon  with 
which  to  scourge  me.  Their  trim,  self-sat- 
isfied little  sentences  of  condemnation  are 
emasculated  versions  of  your  judgment.  It 
is  you  whom  I  have  to  thank  for  the  closing 
of  the  theatre  and  the  failure  of  Herdrine, 
—  you  who  are  responsible  for  the  fact  that 
these  women  look  at  me  with  insolence  and 
the  men  as  though  I  were  a  courtesan. 
How  strange  it  must  seem  to  them  to  see 
us  together  —  the  wolf  and  the  lamb !  Well, 
never  mind.  Take  me  somewhere  and  give 
me  some  tea;  you  owe  me  that,  at  least." 
They  turned  and  left  the  park.  For  a 
few   minutes   conversation   was   impossible, 

96 


BERENICE 

but  as  soon  as  they  had  emerged  from  the 
crowd  he  answered  her. 

"If  I  have  ever  helped  any  one  to  be- 
lieve ill  of  you,"  he  said  slowly,  "  I  am  only 
too  happy  that  they  should  have  the  oppor- 
tunity of  seeing  us  together.  You  are 
rather  severe  on  me.  I  thought  then,  as  I 
think  now,  that  it  is  —  to  put  it  mildly  — 
impolitic  to  enter  upon  a  passionate  denun- 
ciation of  such  an  institution  as  marriage 
when  any  substitute  for  it  must  necessarily 
be  another  step  upon  the  downward  grade. 
The  decadence  of  self-respect  amongst 
young  men,  anj'^  contrast  between  their  lives 
and  the  lives  of  the  women  who  are  brought 
up  to  be  their  wives,  is  too  terribly  painful 
a  subject  for  us  to  discuss  here.  Forgive 
me  if  I  think  now,  as  I  have  always 
thought,  that  it  is  not  a  fitting  subject  for 
a  novelist  —  certainly  not  for  a  woman. 
I  may  be  prejudiced;  yet  it  was  my  duty 
to  write  as  I  thought.     You  must  not  for- 

97 


BERENICE 

get  that!  So  far  as  your  story  went,  I  had 
nothing  but  praise  for  it.  There  were 
many  chapters  which  only  an  artist  could 
have  written." 

She  raised  her  eyebrows.  They  had 
turned  into  Bond  Street  now,  and  were 
close  to  their  destination. 

"  You  men  of  letters  are  so  odd,"  she  ex- 
claimed. "  What  is  Art  but  Truth?  and 
if  my  book  be  not  ti*ue,  how  can  it  know 
anything  of  art?  But  never  mind!  We 
are  talking  shop,  and  I  am  a  little  tired  of 
taking  life  seriously.  Here  we  are!  Order 
me  some  tea,  please,  and  a  chocolate  eclair" 

He  followed  her  to  a  tiny  round  table, 
and  sat  down  by  her  side  upon  the  cush- 
ioned seat.  As  he  gave  his  order  and  looked 
around  the  little  room,  he  smiled  gravely 
to  himself.  It  was  the  first  time  in  his  life, 
—  at  any  rate  since  his  boyhood,  —  that  he 
had  taken  a  woman  into  a  public  room. 
Decidedly  it  was  a  new  era  for  him. 

98 


CHAPTER   VII 

A  N  incident,  which  Matravers  had  found 
once  or  twice  uppermost  in  his  mind 
during  the  last  few  days,  was  recalled  to 
him  with  sudden  vividness  as  he  took  his 
seat  in  an  ill-lit,  shabbily  upholstered  box 
in  the  second  tier  of  the  New  Theatre.  He 
seemed  almost  to  hear  again  the  echoes  of 
that  despairing  cry  which  had  rung  out  so 
plaintively  across  the  desert  of  empty 
benches  from  somewhere  amongst  the  shad- 
ows of  the  auditorium.  Several  times  dur- 
ing the  performance  he  had  glanced  up  in 
the  same  direction;  once  he  had  almost  fan- 
cied he  could  see  a  solitary,  bent  figure  sit- 
ting rigid  and  motionless  in  the  first  row 
of  the  amphitheatre.  No  man  was  pos- 
sessed of  a  smaller  share  of  curiosity  in  the 

99 


BERENICE 

ordinary  sense  of  the  word  than  Matravers; 
but  the  thought  that  this  might  be  the  same 
man  come  again  to  witness  a  play  which 
had  appealed  to  him  before  with  such  pe- 
culiar potency,  interested  him  curiously. 
At  the  close  of  the  second  act  he  left  his 
seat,  and,  after  several  times  losing  his  way, 
found  himself  in  the  little  narrow  space  be- 
hind the  amphitheatre.  Leaning  over  the 
partition,  and  looking  downwards,  he  had 
a  good  view  of  the  man  who  sat  there  quite 
alone,  his  head  resting  upon  his  hand,  his 
eyes  fixed  steadily  upon  a  soiled  and  crum- 
pled programme,  which  was  spread  out 
carefully  before  him.  Matravers  wondered 
whether  there  was  not  in  the  clumsy  figure 
and  awkward  pose  something  vaguely  fa- 
miliar to  him. 

An  attendant  of  the  place  standing  by 
his  side  addressed  him  respectfully. 

"  Not  much  of  a  house  for  the  last  night, 
sir,"  he  remarked. 

100 


BERENICE 

Matravers  agreed,  and  moved  his  head 
downwards  towards  the  solitary  figure. 

"  There  is  one  man,  at  least,"  he  said, 
"  who  finds  the  play  interesting." 

The  attendant  smiled. 

"  I  am  afraid  that  the  gentleman  is  a 
little  bit  '  hoff,'  sir.  He  seems  half  silly  to 
talk  to.  He's  a  queer  sort,  anyway.  Comes 
here  every  blessed  night,  and  in  the  same 
place.  Never  misses.  Once  he  came  six- 
pence short,  and  there  was  a  rare  fuss. 
They  wouldn't  let  him  in,  and  he  wouldn't 
go  away.    I  lent  it  him  at  last." 

"  Did  he  pay  you  back? "  Matravers 
asked. 

"  The  very  next  night ;  never  had  to  ask 
him,  either.  There  goes  the  bell,  sir.  Cur- 
tain up  in  two  minutes." 

The  subject  of  their  conversation  had  not 

once   turned    his   head    or   moved    towards 

them.     Matravers,   conscious   that   he   was 

not  likely  to  do  so,  returned  to  his  seat  just 

101 


BERENICE 

as  the  curtain  rose  upon  the  last  act.  The 
play,  grim,  pessimistic,  yet  lifted  every  now 
and  then  to  a  higher  level  by  strange  flashes 
of  genius  on  the  part  of  the  woman,  dragged 
wearily  along  to  an  end.  The  echoes  of  her 
last  speech  died  away;  she  looked  at  him 
across  the  footlights,  her  dark  eyes  soft 
with  many  regrets,  which,  consciously  or 
not,  spoke  to  him  also  of  reproach.  The 
curtain  descended,  and  her  hands  fell  to  her 
side.    It  was  the  end,  and  it  was  failure! 

Matravers,  making  his  way  more  hur- 
riedly than  usual  from  the  house,  hoped  to 
gain  another  glimpse  of  the  man  who  had 
remained  the  solitary  tenant  of  the  round 
of  empty  seats.  But  he  was  too  late.  The 
man  and  the  audience  had  melted  away 
in  a  thin  little  stream.  Matravers  stood 
on  the  kerbstone  hesitating.  He  had  not 
meant  to  go  behind  to-night.  He  had  a 
feeling  that  she  must  be  regarding  him  at 
that  moment  as  the  executioner  of  her  am- 
102 


BERENICE 

bitions.  Besides,  she  was  going  on  to  a 
reception;  she  would  only  be  in  a  hurry. 
Nevertheless,  he  made  his  way  round  to  the 
stage  door.  He  would  at  least  have  a 
ghmpse  of  her.  But  as  he  turned  the  cor- 
ner, she  was  already  stepping  into  her  car- 
riage. He  paused,  and  simultaneously  with 
her  disappearance  he  realized  that  he  was 
not  the  only  one  who  had  found  his  way 
to  the  narrow  street  to  see  the  last  of  Bere- 
nice. A  man  was  standing  upon  the  oppo- 
site pavement  a  little  way  from  the  car- 
riage, yet  at  such  an  angle  that  a  faint, 
yellow  light  shone  upon  what  was  visible 
of  his  pale  face.  He  had  watched  her  come 
out,  and  was  gazing  now  fixedly  at  the 
window  of  her  brougham.  Matravers  knew 
in  a  moment  that  this  was  the  man  whom 
he  had  seen  sitting  alone  in  the  amphithea- 
tre; and  almost  without  any  definite  idea 
as  to  his  purpose,  he  crossed  the  street 
towards  him.  The  man,  hearing  his  foot- 
103 


BERENICE 

step,  looked  up  with  a  sudden  start;  then, 
without  a  second's  hesitation,  he  turned  and 
hurried  off.  Matravers  still  followed  him. 
The  man  heard  his  footsteps,  and  turned 
round,  then,  with  a  little  moan,  he  started 
running,  his  shoulders  bent,  his  head  for- 
ward. Matravers  halted  at  once.  The 
man  plunged  into  the  shadows,  and  was 
lost  amongst  the  stream  of  people  pouring 
forth  from  the  doors  of  the  Strand  thea- 
tres. 

At  her  door  an  hour  later  Berenice  saw 
the  outline  of  a  figure  now  become  very 
familiar  to  her,  and  Matravers,  who  had 
been  leaving  a  box  of  roses,  whose  creamy 
pink-and-white  blossoms,  mingled  together 
in  a  neighbouring  flower-shop,  had  pleased 
his  fancy,  heard  his  name  called  softly 
across  the  pavement.  He  turned,  and  saw 
Berenice  stepping  from  her  carriage.  With 
an  old-fashioned  courtesy,  which  always  sat 
well  upon  him,  he  offered  her  his  arm. 
104 


'r^'.  !i<'"' 


With  an  old-fashioned  courtesy  ...  he  offered  her  his  arm 


BERENICE 

"  I  thought  that  you  were  to  be  late,"  he 
said,  looking  down  at  her  with  a  shade  of 
anxiety  in  his  clear,  grave  face.  "  Was  not 
this  Lady  Truton's  night? " 

She  nodded. 

"Yes;  don't  talk  to  me  —  just  yet.  I 
am  upset !    Come  in  and  sit  with  me  I  " 

He  hesitated.  With  a  scrupulous  deli- 
cacy, which  sometimes  almost  irritated  her, 
he  had  invariably  refrained  from  paying 
her  visits  so  late  as  this.  But  to-night  was 
different!  Her  fingers  were  clasping  his 
arm,  —  and  she  was  in  trouble.  He  suf- 
fered himself  to  be  led  up  the  stairs  into  her 
little  room. 

"  Some  coffee  for  two,"  she  told  her 
woman.  "You  can  go  to  bed  then!  I 
shall  not  want  you  again !  " 

She  threw  herself  into  an  empty  chair, 
and  loosened  the  silk  ribbons  of  her  opera 
cloak. 

"  Do  you  mind  opening  the  window? " 
107 


BERENICE 

she  asked.  "It  is  stifling  in  here.  I  can 
scarcely  breathe!" 

He  threw  it  wide  open,  and  wheeled  her 
chair  up  to  it.  The  glare  from  the  West 
End  lit  up  the  dark  sky.  The  silence  of 
the  little  room  and  the  empty  street  below, 
seemed  deepened  by  that  faint,  far-away 
roar  from  the  pandemonium  of  pleasure.  A 
light  from  the  opposite  side  of  the  way,  — 
or  was  it  the  rising  moon  behind  the  dark 
houses?  —  gleamed  upon  her  white  throat, 
and  in  her  soft,  dim  eyes.  She  lay  quite 
still,  looking  into  vacancy.  Her  hand  hung 
over  the  side  of  the  chair  nearest  to  him. 
Half  unconsciously  he .  took  it  up  and 
stroked  it  soothingly.  The  tears  gushed 
from  her  eyes.  At  his  kindly  touch  her 
over-wrought  feelings  gave  way.  Her  fin- 
gers closed  spasmodically  upon  his. 

He  said  nothing.  The  time  had  passed 
when  words  were  necessary  between  them. 
They  were  near  enough  to  one  another  now 
108 


BERENICE 

to  understand  the  value  of  silence.  But 
those  few  moments  seemed  to  him  for  ever 
like  a  landmark  in  his  life.  A  new  rela- 
tion was  born  between  them  in  the  passion- 
ate intensity  of  that  deep  quietness. 

He  watched  her  bosom  cease  to  heave, 
and  the  dimness  pass  from  her  eyes.  Then 
he  took  up  the  box  which  he  had  been  car- 
rying, and  emptied  the  pink-and-white 
blossoms  into  her  lap.  She  stooped  down 
and  buried  her  face  in  them.  Their  faint, 
delicate  perfume  seemed  to  fill  the  room. 

"  You  are  very  good,"  she  said  abruptly. 
"  Thank  God  that  there  is  some  one  who 
is  good  to  me !  " 

The  coffee  was  in  the  room,  and  Bere- 
nice threw  off  her  cloak  and  brought  it  to 
him.  A  fit  of  restlessness  seemed  to  have 
followed  upon  her  moment  of  weakness. 
She  began  walking  with  quick,  uneven 
steps  up  and  down  the  room.  Matravers 
forgot  to  drink  his  coffee.  He  was  watch- 
109 


BERENICE 

ing  her  with  a  curious  sense  of  emotional 
excitement.  The  Httle  chamber  was  full  of 
half  lights  and  shadows,  and  there  seemed 
to  him  something  almost  unearthly  about 
this  woman  with  her  soft  grey  gown  and 
marble  face.  He  was  stirred  by  her  pres- 
ence in  a  new  way.  The  rustle  of  her 
silken  skirts  as  she  swept  in  and  out  of  the 
dim  light,  the  delicate  whiteness  of  her  arms 
and  throat,  the  flashing  of  a  single  diamond 
in  her  dark  coiled  hair,  —  these  seemed  triv- 
ial things  enough,  yet  they  were  yielding 
him  a  new  and  mysterious  pleasure.  For 
the  first  time  his  sense  of  her  beauty  was 
fully  aroused.  Every  now  and  then  he 
caught  faint  glimpses  of  her  face.  It  was 
like  the  face  of  a  new  woman  to  him. 
There  was  some  tender  and  wonderful 
change  there,  which  he  could  not  under- 
stand, and  yet  which  seemed  to  strike  some 
responsive  chord  in  his  own  emotions.  In- 
stinctively he  felt  that  she  was  passing  into 
110 


There  seemed  to  him  something  almost  unearthly  about  this  woman 
with  her  soft  grey  gown  and  marble  face 


BERENICE 

a  new  phase  of  life.  Surely,  he,  too,  was 
walking  hand  and  hand  with  her  through 
the  shadows!  The  touch  of  her  interlaced 
fingers  had  burned  his  flesh. 

Presently  she  came  and  sat  down  beside 
him. 

"Forgive  me!"  she  murmured.  "It 
does  me  so  much  good  to  have  you  here. 
I  am  very  foolish !  " 

"Tell  me  about  it!" 

She  frowned  very  slightly,  and  looked 
away  at  a  star. 

"  It  is  nothing!  It  is  beginning  to  seem 
less  than  nothing!  I  have  written  a  book 
for  women,  for  the  sake  of  women,  because 
my  heart  ached  for  their  sufferings,  and 
because  I  too  have  felt  the  fire.  I  wonder 
whether  it  was  really  an  evil  book,"  she 
added,  still  looking  away  from  him  at  that 
single  star  in  the  dark  sky.  "  People  say 
so!  The  newspapers  say  so!  Yet  it  was 
a  true  book !  I  wrote  it  from  my  soul,  — 
113 


BERENICE 

I  wrote  it  with  my  own  blood.  I  have  not 
been  a  good  woman,  but  I  have  been  a 
pure  woman!  When  I  wrote  it,  I  was 
lonely;  I  have  always  been  lonely.  But 
I  thought,  now  I  shall  know  what  it  is  like 
to  have  friends.  Many  women  will  under- 
stand that  I  have  suffered  in  doing  this 
thing  for  their  sakes!  For  it  was  my  own 
life  which  I  lay  bare,  my  own  life,  my  own 
sufferings,  my  own  agony!  I  thought, 
they  will  come  to  me  and  they  will  thank 
me  for  it!  I  shall  have  sympathy  and  I 
shall  have  friends.  .  .  .  And  now  my  book 
is  written,  and  I  am  wiser.  I  know  now 
that  woman  does  not  want  her  freedom! 
Though  they  drag  her  down  into  hell,  the 
chains  of  her  slavery  have  grown  around 
her  heart  and  have  become  precious  to  her! 
Tell  me,  are  those  pure  women  who  will- 
ingly give  their  souls  and  their  bodies  in 
marriage  to  men  who  have  sinned  and  who 
will  sin  again?     They  do  it  without  dis- 

114 


BERENICE 

guise,  without  shame,  for  position,  or  for 
freedom,  or  for  money!  yet  there  are  other 
women  whom  they  call  courtesans,  and 
from  whose  touch  they  snatch  away  the  hem 
of  their  skirts  in  horror!  Oh,  it  is  terrible! 
There  can  be  no  corruption  worse  than  this 
in  hell!" 

"  Yours  has  been  the  common  disap- 
pointment of  all  reformers,"  he  said  gravely. 
"  Gratitude  is  the  rarest  tribute  the  world 
ever  offers  to  those  who  have  laboured  to 
cleanse  it.  When  you  are  a  little  older  you 
will  have  learnt  your  lesson.  But  it  is  al- 
ways very  hard  to  learn.  .  .  .  Tell  me 
about  to-night! " 

She  raised  her  head  a  little.  A  faint  spot 
of  colour  stained  her  cheek. 

"  There  was  one  woman  who  praised  me, 
who  came  to  see  me,  and  sent  me  cards  to 
go  to  her  house.  To-night  I  went.  Fool- 
ishly I  had  hoped  a  good  deal  from  it!  I 
did  not  like  Lady  Truton  herself,  but  I 
115 


BERENICE 

hoped  that  I  should  meet  other  women 
there  who  would  be  different!  It  was  a 
new  experience  to  me  to  be  going  amongst 
my  own  sex.  I  was  like  a  child  going  to 
her  first  party.  I  was  quite  excited,  almost 
nervous.  I  had  a  little  dream,  —  there 
would  be  some  women  there  —  one  would 
be  enough  —  with  whom  I  might  be  friends, 
and  it  would  make  life  very  different  to 
me  to  have  even  one  woman  friend.  But 
they  were  all  horrid.  They  were  vulgar, 
and  one  woman,  she  took  me  on  one  side 
and  praised  my  book.  She  agreed,  she  said, 
with  every  word  in  it!  She  had  found  out 
that  her  husband  had  a  mistress,  —  some 
chorus-girl,  —  and  she  was  repaying  him  in 
his  own  coin.  She  too  had  a  lover  —  and 
for  every  infidelity  of  his  she  was  repaying 
him  in  this  manner.  She  dared  to  assume 
that  I  —  I  should  approve  of  her  conduct ; 
she  asked  me  to  go  and  see  her!  My  God! 
it  was  hideous." 

116 


BERENICE 

Matravers  laid  his  hand  upon  hers,  and 
leaned  forward  in  his  chair. 

"  Lady  Truton's  was  the  very  worst 
house  you  could  have  gone  to,"  he  said 
gently.  "  You  must  not  be  too  discour- 
aged all  at  once.  The  women  of  her  set, 
thank  God,  are  not  in  the  least  typical 
Englishwomen.  They  are  fast  and  silly, 
—  a  few,  I  am  afraid,  worse.  They  make 
use  of  the  free  discussions  in  these  days  of 
the  relations  between  our  sexes,  to  excuse 
grotesque  extravagances  in  dress  and  hab- 
its which  society  ought  never  to  pardon. 
Do  not  let  their  judgments  or  their  misin- 
terpretations trouble  you!  You  are  as  far 
above  them,  Berenice,  as  that  little  star  is 
from  us." 

*'  I  do  not  pretend  to  be  anything  but  a 
woman,"  she  said,  bending  her  head,  "  and 
to  stand  alone  always  is  very  hard." 

"  It  is  very  hard  for  a  man!  It  must  be 
very  much  harder  for  a  woman.  But, 
117 


BERENICE 

Berenice,  you  would  not  call  yourself  ab- 
solutely friendless ! " 

She  raised  her  head  for  a  moment.  Her 
dark  eyes  were  wonderfully  soft. 

"  Who  is  there  that  cares? "  she  mur- 
mured. 

He  touched  the  tips  of  her  fingers.  Her 
soft,  warm  hand  yielded  itself  readily,  and 
slid  into  his. 

"  Do  I  count  for  no  one? "  he  whispered. 

There  was  a  silence  in  the  little  room. 
The  yellow  glare  had  faded  from  the  sky, 
and  a  night  wind  was  blowing  softly  in. 
A  clock  in  the  distance  struck  one.  To- 
gether they  sat  and  gazed  out  upon  the 
darkness.  Looking  more  than  once  into 
her  pale  face,  Matravers  realized  again  that 
wonderful  change.  His  own  emotions  were 
curiously  disturbed.  He,  himself,  so  re- 
markable through  all  his  life  for  a  change- 
less serenity  of  purpose,  and  a  fixed  mas- 
terly control  over  his  whole  environment, 

118 


BERENICE 

felt  himself  suddenly  like  a  rudderless  ship 
at  the  mercy  of  a  great  unknown  sea.  A 
sense  of  drifting  was  upon  him.  They 
were  both  drifting.  Surely  this  little  room, 
with  its  dim  light  and  shadows  and  its  faint 
odour  of  roses,  had  become  a  hotbed  of 
tragedy.  He  had  imagined  that  death  it- 
self was  something  like  this,  —  a  dissolu- 
tion of  all  fixed  purposes.  And  with  it  all, 
this  remnant  of  life,  if  it  were  but  a  rem- 
nant, seemed  suddenly  to  be  flowing  through 
his  veins  with  all  the  rich,  surpassing  sweet- 
ness of  some  exquisite  symphony! 

"  You  count  for  a  great  deal,"  she  said. 
"  If  you  had  not  come  to  me,  I  think  that 
I  must  have  died.  ...  If  I  were  to  lose 
you  ...  I  think  that  I  should  die." 

She  threw  herself  back  in  her  chair  with 
a  gesture  of  complete  abandonment.  Her 
arms  hung  loosely  down  over  its  sides.  The 
moonlight,  which  had  been  gradually  gath- 
ering strength,  shone  softly  upon  her  pale 
119 


BERENICE 

face  and  on  the  soft,  lustrous  pearls  at  her 
throat.  Her  dark,  wet  eyes  seemed  touched 
with  smouldering  fire.  She  looked  at  him. 
He  sprang  to  his  feet  and  walked  restlessly 
up  and  down  the  room.  His  forehead  was 
hot  and  dry,  and  his  hands  were  trembling. 

"  There  is  not  any  reason,"  he  said,  halt- 
ing suddenly  in  front  of  her,  "  why  we 
should  lose  one  another.  I  was  coming  to- 
morrow morning  to  make  a  proposition  to 
you.  If  you  accept  it,  we  shall  be  forced 
to  see  a  great  deal  of  one  another." 

"Yes?" 

"  You  perhaps  did  not  know  that  I  had 
any  ambitions  as  a  dramatic  author.  Yet 
my  first  serious  work  after  I  left  Oxford 
was  a  play ;  I  took  it  up  yesterday.'* 

"  You  have  really  written  a  play,"  she 
murmured,  "  and  you  never  told  me." 

"  At  least  I  am  telling  you  now,"  he  re- 
minded her ;   "I  am  telling  you  before  any 
one,  because  I  want  your  help." 
120 


BERENICE 

"You  want  what?" 

"  I  want  you  to  help  me  by  taking  the 
part  of  my  heroine.  I  read  it  yesterday  by 
appointment  to  Fergusson.  He  accepted  it 
at  once  on  the  most  liberal  terms.  I  told 
him  there  was  one  condition  —  that  the  part 
of  my  heroine  must  be  offered  to  you,  if 
you  would  accept  it.  There  was  a  little 
difficulty,  as,  of  course,  JNIiss  Robinson  is 
a  fixture  at  the  Pall  Mall.  However,  Fer- 
gusson saw  you  last  night  from  the  back 
of  the  dress  circle,  and  this  morning  he  has 
agreed.  It  only  remains  for  you  to  read, 
or  allow  me  to  read  to  you  the  play." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  you  are  offer- 
ing me  the  principal  part  in  a  play  of  yours 
—  at  the  Pall  Mall  —  with  Fergusson?" 

"  Well,  I  think  that  is  about  what  it 
comes  to,"  he  assented. 

She  rose  to  her  feet  and  took  his  hands 
in  hers. 

"  You  are  too  good  —  much  too  good  to 
121 


BERENICE 

me,"  she  said  softly.  "  I  dare  not  take  it; 
I  am  not  strong  enough." 

"  It  will  be  you,  or  no  one,"  he  said 
decidedly.  "  But  first  I  am  going  to  read 
you  the  play.  If  I  may,  I  shall  bring  it 
to  you  to-morrow." 

"  I  want  to  ask  you  something,"  she  said 
abruptly.  "  You  must  answer  me  faith- 
fully. You  are  doing  this,  you  are  making 
me  this  offer  because  you  think  that  you 
owe  me  something.  It  is  a  sort  of  repara- 
tion for  your  attack  upon  Herdrine.  I 
want  to  know  if  it  is  that." 

"  I  can  assure  you,"  he  said  earnestly, 
"  that  I  am  not  nearly  so  conscientious.  I 
wrote  the  play  solely  as  a  literary  work. 
I  had  no  thought  of  having  it  produced,  of 
offering  it  to  anybody.  Then  I  saw  you  at 
the  New  Theatre;  I  think  that  you  in- 
spired me  with  a  sort  of  dramatic  excite- 
ment. I  went  home  and  read  my  play. 
Bathilde  seemed  to  me  then  to  speak  with 
122 


BERENICE 

your  tongue,  to  look  at  me  with  your  eyes, 
to  be  clothed  from  her  soul  outwards  with 
your  personality.  In  the  morning  I  wrote 
to  Fergusson." 

"  I  want  to  believe  you,"  she  said  softly; 
"  but  it  seems  so  strange.  I  am  no  actress 
like  Adelaide  Robinson;  I  am  afraid  that 
if  I  accept  your  offer,  I  may  hurt  the  play. 
She  is  popular,  and  I  am  unknown." 

"  She  has  talent,"  he  said,  "  and  experi- 
ence; you  have  genius,  which  is  far  above 
either.  I  am  not  leaving  you  any  choice  at 
all.     To-morrow  I  shall  bring  the  play." 

"  You  may  at  least  do  that,"  she  an- 
swered. "  It  will  be  a  pleasure  to  hear  it 
read.  Come  to  luncheon,  and  we  will  have 
a  long  afternoon." 

Matravers  took  his  leave  with  a  sense 
of  relief.  Their  farewell  had  been  cordial 
enough,  but  unemotional.  Yet  even  he, 
ignorant  of  women  and  their  ways  as  he 
was,  was  conscious  that  they  had  entered 
123 


BERENICE 

together  upon  a  new  phase  of  their  knowl- 
edge of  each  other.  The  touch  of  their 
fingers,  the  few  conventional  words  which 
passed  between  them,  as  she  leaned  over 
the  staircase  watching  him  descend,  seemed 
to  him  to  savour  somehow  of  mockery.  He 
passed  out  from  her  presence  into  the  cool, 
soft  night,  dazed,  not  a  little  bewildered 
at  this  new  strong  sense  of  living,  which 
had  set  his  pulses  beating  to  music  and  sent 
his  blood  rushing  through  his  body  with  a 
new  sweetness.  Yet  with  it  all  he  was  dis- 
tressed and  unhappy.  He  was  confronted 
with  the  one  great  influence  of  life  against 
which  he  had  dehberately  set  his  face. 


124 


CHAPTER   VIII 

ll/TATRAVERS  began  to  find  himself, 
for  the  first  time  in  his  hfe,  seriously 
attracted  by  a  woman.  He  realized  it  in 
some  measure  as  he  walked  homeward  in 
the  early  morning,  after  this  last  interview 
with  Berenice;  he  knew  it  for  an  absolute 
fact  on  the  following  evening  as  he  walked 
through  the  crowded  streets  back  to  his 
rooms  with  the  manuscript  of  the  play 
which  he  had  been  reading  to  her  in  his 
pocket.  He  felt  himself  moving  in  what 
was  to  some  extent  an  unreal  atmosphere. 
His  senses  were  tingling  with  the  excite- 
ment of  the  last  few  hours  —  for  the  first 
time  he  knew  the  full  fascination  of  a 
woman's  intellectual  sympathy.  He  had 
gone  to  his  task  wholly  devoid  of  any  pleas- 
125 


BERENICE 

urable  anticipation.  It  spoke  much  for  the 
woman's  tact  that  before  he  had  read  half 
a  dozen  pages  he  was  not  only  completely 
at  his  ease,  but  was  experiencing  a  new  and 
very  pleasurable  sensation.  The  memory 
of  it  was  with  him  now  —  he  had  no  mind 
to  disturb  it  by  any  vague  alarm  as  to  the 
future  of  their  relationship. 

In  Piccadilly  he  met  Fergusson,  who 
turned  and  walked  with  him. 

"  I  have  been  to  your  rooms,  Matravers," 
the  actor  said.  "  I  want  to  know  whether 
you  have  arranged  with  your  friend?" 

"  I  have  just  left  her,"  Matravers  re- 
plied. "  She  appears  to  like  the  play,  and 
has  consented  to  play  Bathilde." 

The  actor  smiled.  Was  Matravers  really 
so  simple,  or  did  he  imagine  that  an  actress 
whose  name  was  as  yet  unknown  would 
hesitate  to  play  with  him  at  the  Pall  Mall 
Theatre.  Yet  he  himself  had  been  hoping 
that  there  might  be  some  difficulty,  —  he 

126 


BERENICE 

had  a  "  Bathilde  "  of  his  own  who  would 
take  a  great  deal  of  pacifying.  The  thing 
was  settled  now  however. 

"  I  should  like,"  he  said,  "  to  make  her 
acquaintance  at  once." 

"  I  have  thought  of  that,"  Matravers 
said.  "  Will  you  lunch  with  me  at  my 
rooms  on  Sunday  and  meet  her?  that  is, 
of  course,  if  she  is  able  to  come." 

"  I  shall  be  dehghted,"  Fergusson  an- 
swered.    "  About  two,  I  suppose?  " 

Matravers  assented,  and  the  two  men 
parted.  The  actor,  with  a  little  shrug  of 
his  shoulders  and  the  air  of  a  man  who  has 
an  unpleasant  task  before  him,  turned  south- 
wards to  interview  the  lady  who  certainly 
had  the  first  claim  to  play  "  Bathilde." 
He  found  her  at  home  and  anxiously  ex- 
pecting him. 

"  If  you  had  not  come  to-day,"  she  re- 
marked, "  I  should  have  sent  for  you.     I 
want  you  to  contradict  that  rubbish." 
127 


BERENICE 

She  threw  the  theatrical  paper  across  at 
him,  and  watched  him,  whilst  he  read  the 
paragraph  to  which  she  had  pointed.  He 
laid  the  paper  down. 

"  I  cannot  altogether  contradict  it,"  he 
said.  "  There  is  some  truth  in  what  the 
man  writes." 

The  lady  was  getting  angry.  She  came 
over  to  Fergusson  and  stood  by  his  side. 

"  You  mean  to  tell  me,"  she  exclaimed, 
"  that  you  have  accepted  a  play  for  imme- 
diate production  which  I  have  not  even 
seen,  and  in  which  the  principal  part  is  to 
be  given  to  one  of  those  crackpots  down  at 
the  New  Theatre,  an,  amateur,  an  outsider 
—  a  woman  no  one  ever  heard  of  before." 

"  You  can't  exactly  say  that,"  he  inter- 
posed calmly.  "I  see  you  have  her  novel 
on  your  table  there,  and  she  is  a  woman 
•who  has  been  talked  about  a  good  deal 
lately.  But  the  facts  of  the  case  are  these. 
Matravers  brought  me  a  play  a  few  days 
128 


BERENICE 

ago  which  almost  took  my  breath  away.  It 
is  by  far  the  best  thing  of  the  sort  I  ever 
read.  It  is  bomid  to  be  a  great  success.  I 
can't  tell  you  any  more  now,  —  you  shall 
read  it  yourself  in  a  day  or  two.  He  was 
very  easy  to  deal  with  as  to  terms,  but  he 
made  one  condition:  that  a  certain  part  in 
it,  —  the  principal  one,  I  admit,  —  should 
be  offered  to  this  woman.  I  tried  all  I 
could  to  talk  him  out  of  it,  but  absolutely 
without  effect.  I  was  forced  to  consent. 
There  is  not  a  manager  in  London  who 
would  not  jump  at  the  play  on  any  con- 
ditions. You  know  our  position.  *  Her 
Majesty '  is  a  failure,  and  I  haven't  a 
single  decent  thing  to  put  on.  I  simply 
dared  not  let  such  a  chance  as  this  go  by." 
"  I  never  heard  anything  so  ridiculous  in 
my  life,"  the  lady  exclaimed.  "  No,  I'm 
not  blaming  you,  Reggie!  I  don't  suppose 
you  could  have  done  anything  else.  But 
this  woman,  what  a  nerve  she  must  have 
129 


BERENICE 

to  imagine  that  she  can  do  it!  I  see  her 
horrid  Norwegian  play  has  come  to  utter 
grief  at  the  New  Theatre." 

"  She  is  a  clever  woman,"  Fergusson  re- 
marked.   "  One  can  only  hope  for  the  best." 

She  flashed  a  quiet  glance  at  him. 

"  You  know  her,  then,  —  you  have  been 
to  see  her." 

"  Not  yet,"  Fergusson  answered.  "  I 
am  going  to  meet  her  to-morrow.  Matrav- 
ers  has  asked  me  to  lunch." 

"  Tell  me  about  Matravers,"  she  said. 

"  I  am  afraid  I  do  not  know  much.  He 
is  a  very  distinguished  literary  man,  but  his 
work  has  generally  been  critical  or  philo- 
sophical, —  every  one  will  be  surprised  to 
hear  that  he  has  written  a  play.  You  will 
find  that  there  will  be  quite  a  stir  about  it. 
The  reason  why  we  have  no  plays  nowa- 
days which  can  possibly  be  classed  as  lit- 
erature, is  because  the  wrong  class  of  man 
is  writing  for  the  stage.    Smith  and  Francis 

130 


BERENICE 

and  all  these  men  have  fine  dramatic  in- 
stincts, but  they  are  not  scholars.  Their 
dialogue  is  mostly  beneath  contempt;  there 
is  a  dash  of  conventionality  in  their  best 
work.  Now,  Matravers  is  a  writer  of  an 
altogether  different  type." 

"  Thanks,"  she  interrupted,  "  but  I  don't 
want  a  homily.  I  am  only  curious  about 
the  man  himself." 

Fergusson  pulled  himself  up  a  little  an- 
noyed. He  had  begun  to  talk  about  a  sub- 
ject of  peculiar  interest  to  him. 

"  Oh,  the  man  himself  is  rather  an  inter- 
esting personality,"  he  declared.  "  He  is 
a  recluse,  a  dilettante,  and  a  very  brilliant 
man  of  letters." 

"  I  want  to  know,"  the  lady  said  impa- 
tiently, "  whether  he  is  married." 

"Married!  certainly  not,"  Fergusson 
assured  her. 

"  Very  well,  then,  I  am  going  there  to 
luncheon  with  you  to-morrow." 
131 


BERENICE 

Fergusson  looked  blank. 

"  But,  my  dear  girl,"  he  protested,  "  how 
on  earth " 

"  Don't  be  foolish,  Reggie,"  she  said 
calmly.  "It  is  perfectly  natural  for  me 
to  go!  I  have  been  your  principal  actress 
for  several  seasons.  I  suppose  if  there  is 
a  second  woman's  part  in  the  piece,  it  will 
be  mine,  if  I  choose  to  take  it.  You  must 
write  and  ask  Matravers  for  permission  to 
bring  me.  You  can  mention  my  desire  to 
meet  the  new  actress  if  you  like." 

Fergusson  took  up  his  hat. 

"  Matravers  is  not  the  sort  of  man  one 
feels  like  taking  a  liberty  with,"  he  said. 
"  But  I'll  try  him." 

"  You  can  let  me  know  to-night  at  the 
theatre,"  she  directed. 


132 


CHAPTER   IX 

]^OTHING  short  of  a  miracle  could 
have  made  Matravers'  luncheon  party 
a  complete  success;  yet,  so  far  as  Berenice 
was  concerned,  it  could  scarcely  be  looked 
upon  in  any  other  light.  Her  demeanour 
towards  Adelaide  Robinson  and  Fergusson 
was  such  as  to  give  absolutely  no  oppor- 
tunity for  anything  disagreeable!  She 
frankly  admitted  both  her  inexperience  and 
her  ignorance.  Yet,  before  they  left,  both 
Fergusson  and  his  companion  began  to 
understand  JNIatravers'  confidence  in  her. 
There  was  something  almost  magnetically 
attractive  about  her  personality. 

The  luncheon  was  very  much  what  one 
who  knew  him  would  have  expected  from 
Matravers  —  simple,   yet   served   with   ex- 
133 


BERENICE 

ceeding  elegance.  The  fruit,  the  flowers, 
and  the  wine  had  been  his  own  care;  and 
the  table  had  very  much  the  appearance  of 
having  been  bodily  transported  from  the 
palace  of  a  noble  of  some  southern  land. 
After  the  meal  was  over,  they  sat  out  upon 
the  shaded  balcony  and  sipped  their  coffee 
and  liqueurs,  —  Fergusson  and  Berenice 
wrapt  in  the  discussion  of  many  details  of 
the  work  which  lay  before  them,  whilst  Ma- 
travers,  with  an  effort  which  he  carefully 
concealed,  talked  continually  with  Ade- 
laide Robinson. 

"  Is  it  true,"  she  asked  him,  "  that  you 
did  not  intend  your  play  for  the  stage  — 
that  you  wrote  it  from  a  literary  point  of 
view  only?  " 

"  In  a  sense,  that  is  quite  true,"  he  ad- 
mitted. "  I  wrote  it  without  any  definite 
idea  of  offering  it  to  any  London  manager. 
My  doing  so  was  really  only  an  impulse." 

"  If  Mr.  Fergusson  is  right  —  and  he  is 
134 


Matravers  was  suddenly  conscious  of  an  odd  sense 
of  disturbance 


BERENICE 

a  pretty  good  judge  —  you  won't  regret 
having  done  so,"  she  remarked.  "  He 
thinks  it  is  going  to  have  a  big  run." 

"  He  may  be  right,"  Matravers  answered. 
"  For  all  our  sakes,  I  hope  so! " 

"  It  will  be  a  magnificent  opportimity 
for  your  friend." 

Matravers  looked  over  towards  Berenice. 
She  was  talking  eagerly  to  Fergusson, 
whose  dark,  handsome  head  was  very  close 
to  hers,  and  in  whose  eyes  was  already  evi- 
dent his  growing  admiration.  Matravers 
was  suddenly  conscious  of  an  odd  sense  of 
disturbance.  He  was  grateful  to  Adelaide 
Robinson  for  her  intervention.  She  had 
risen  to  her  feet,  and  glanced  downwards 
at  the  little  brougham  drawn  up  below. 

"  I  am  so  sorry  to  go,"  she  said;  "  but  I 
positively  must  make  some  calls  this  after- 
noon." 

Fergusson  rose  also,  with  obvious  regret, 
and  they  left  together. 
137 


BERENICE 

"  Don't  forget,"  he  called  back  from  the 
door ;  "we  read  our  parts  to-morrow,  and 
rehearsals  begin  on  Thursday." 

"  I  have  it  all  down,"  Berenice  answered. 
"  I  will  do  my  best  to  be  ready  for  Thurs- 
day." 

Berenice  remained  standing,  looking 
thoughtfully  after  the  little  brougham, 
which  was  being  driven  down  Piccadilly. 

Matravers  came  back  to  her,  and  laid 
his  hand  gently  upon  her  arm. 

"  You  must  not  think  of  going  yet,"  he 
said.  "  I  want  you  to  stay  and  have  tea 
with  me." 

"  I  should  like  to,"  she  answered.  "  I 
seem  to  have  so  much  to  say  to  you." 

He  piled  her  chair  with  cushions  and 
drew  it  back  into  the  shade.  Then  he  lit 
a  cigarette,  and  sat  down  by  her  side. 

"  I  suppose  you  must  think  that  I  am 
very    ungrateful,"     she     said.       "  I     have 
scarcely  said  *  thank  you  '  yet,  have  I  ?  " 
138 


BERENICE 

"  You  will  please  me  best  by  never  say- 
ing it,"  he  answered.  "  I  only  hope  that 
it  will  be  a  step  you  will  never  regret." 

"How  could  I?" 

He  looked  at  her  steadily,  a  certain  grave 
concentration  of  thought  manifest  in  his 
dark  eyes.  Berenice  was  looking  her  best 
that  afternoon.  She  was  certainly  a  very 
beautiful  and  a  very  distinguished-looking 
woman.  Her  eyes  met  his  frankly;  her 
lips  were  curved  in  a  faintly  tender  smile. 

"  Well,  I  hardly  know,"  he  said.  "  You 
are  going  to  be  a  popular  actress.  Hence- 
forth the  stage  will  have  claims  upon  you! 
It  will  become  your  career." 

"  You  have  plenty  of  confidence." 

"  I  have  absolute  confidence  in  you,"  he 
declared,  "  and  Fergusson  is  equally  con- 
fident about  the  play;  chance  has  given 
you  this  opportunity  —  the  result  is  beyond 
question!  Yet  I  confess  that  I  have  a  pre- 
sentiment. If  the  manuscript  of  *  The 
139 


BERENICE 

Heart  of  the  People '  were  in  my  hands 
at  this  moment,  I  think  that  I  would  tear 
it  into  little  pieces,  and  watch  them  flutter 
down  on  to  the  pavement  there." 

"  I  do  not  understand  you,"  she  said 
softly.  "  You  say  that  you  have  no 
doubt " 

"  It  is  because  I  have  no  doubt  —  it  is 
because  I  know  that  it  will  make  you  a 
popular  and  a  famous  actress.  You  will 
gain  this.     I  wonder  what  you  will  lose." 

She  moved  restlessly  on  her  chair.. 

"Why  should  I  lose  anything?" 

"It  is  only  a  presentiment,"  he  reminded 
her.  "  I  pray  that  you  may  not  lose  any- 
thing. Yet  you  are  coming  under  a  very 
fascinating  influence.  It  is  your  person- 
ality I  am  afraid  of.  You  are  going  to 
belong  definitely  to  a  profession  which  is  at 
once  the  most  catholic  and  the  most  narrow- 
ing in  the  world.  I  believe  that  you  are 
strong  enough  to  stand  alone,  to  remain 
140 


BERENICE 

yourself.  I  pray  that  it  may  be  so,  and 
yet,  there  is  just  the  shadow  of  the  presenti- 
ment.   Perhaps  it  is  foohsh." 

Their  chairs  were  close  together;  he  sud- 
denly felt  the  perfume  of  her  hair  and  the 
touch  of  her  fingers  upon  his  hand.  Her 
face  was  quite  close  to  his. 

"  At  least,"  she  murmured,  "  I  pray  that 
I  may  never  lose  your  friendship." 

"If  only  I  could  ensure  j^ou  as  confi- 
dently the  fulfilment  of  all  your  desires," 
he  answered,  "  you  would  be  a  very  happy 
woman.  I  am  too  lonely  a  man,  Berenice, 
to  part  with  any  of  my  few  joys.  Whether 
you  change  or  no,  you  must  never  change 
towards  me." 

She  was  silent.  There  were  no  signs  left 
of  the  brilliant  levity  which  had  made  their 
little  luncheon  pass  off  so  successfully. 
She  sat  with  her  head  resting  upon  her 
elbow,  gazing  steadily  up  at  the  little  white 
clouds  which  floated  over  the  housetops.  A 
141 


BERENICE 

tea  equipage  was  brought  out  and  deftly 
arranged  between  them. 

"  To-day,"  Matravers  said,  "  I  am  going 
to  have  the  luxury  of  having  my  tea  made 
for  me.  Please  come  back  from  dreamland 
and  realize  the  Englishman's  idyll  of  do- 
mesticity." 

She  turned  in  her  chair,  and  smiled  upon 
him. 

"  I  can  do  it,"  she  assured  him.  "  I  be- 
lieve you  doubt  my  ability,  but  you  need 
not." 

They  talked  lightly  for  some  time  —  an 
art  which  Matravers  found  himself  to  be 
acquiring  with  wonderful  facility.  Then 
there  was  a  pause.  When  she  spoke  again, 
it  was  in  an  altogether  different  tone. 

"  I  want  you  to  answer  me,"  she  said, 
"  it  is  not  too  late.  Shall  I  give  up  Ba- 
thilde  —  and  the  stage  ?  Listen !  You  do 
not  know  anything  of  my  circumstances. 
I  am  not  dependent  upon  either  the  stage 
142 


••  I  can  do  it,"  she  assured  hira.     "  I  believe  you  doubt  my 
abilit}',  but  you  need  not " 


J 


BERENICE 

or  my  writing  for  a  living.    I  ask  you  for 
your  honest  advice.     Shall  I  give  it  up?  " 

"  You  are  placing  a  very  heavy  responsi- 
bility upon  my  shoulders,"  he  answered  her 
thoughtfully.  "  Yet  I  will  try  to  answer 
you  honestly.  I  should  be  happier  if  I 
could  advise  you  to  give  it  up!  But  I  can- 
not !  You  have  the  gift  —  you  must  use  it. 
The  obligation  of  self -development  is  heavi- 
est upon  the  shoulders  of  those  whose  fore- 
heads Nature's  twin-sister  has  touched  with 
fire!  I  would  it  were  any  other  gift,  Bere- 
nice; but  that  is  only  a  personal  feeling. 
No!  you  must  follow  out  your  destiny. 
You  have  an  opportunity  of  occupying  a 
unique  and  marvellous  position.  You  can 
create  a  new  ideal.  Only  be  true  always  to 
yourself.  Be  very  jealous  indeed  of  ab- 
sorbing any  of  the  modes  of  thought  and 
life  which  will  spring  up  everywhere  around 
you  in  the  new  world.  Remember  it  is  the 
old  ideals  which  are  the  sweetest  and  the 
145 


BERENICE 

truest.  .  .  .  Forgive  me,  please!  I  am 
talking  like  a  pedagogue." 

"  You  are  talking  as  I  like  to  be  talked 
to,"  she  answered.  "  Yet  you  need  not  fear 
that  my  head  will  be  turned,  even  if  the 
success  should  come.  You  forget  that  I  am 
almost  an  old  woman.  The  religion  of  my 
life  has  long  been  conceived  and  fashioned." 

He  looked  at  her  with  a  curious  smile. 
If  thirty  seemed  old  to  her,  what  must  she 
think  of  him? " 

"  I  wonder,"  he  said  simply,  "  if  you 
would  think  me  impertinent  if  I  w^ere  to 
ask  you  to  tell  me  more  about  yourself. 
How  is  it  that  you  are  altogether  alone  in 
the  world?" 

The  words  had  scarcely  left  his  lips  be- 
fore he  would  have  given  much  to  have 
recalled  them.  He  saw  her  start,  flinch 
back  as  though  she  had  been  struck,  and 
a  grey  pallor  spread  itself  over  her  face, 
almost  to  the  lips.  She  looked  at  him  fix- 
146 


BERENICE 

edly  for  several  moments  without  speak- 
ing. 

"  One  day,"  she  said,  "  I  will  tell  you  all 
that.  You  shall  know  everything.  But 
,  not  now ;  not  yet." 

"  Whenever  you  will,"  he  answered,  ig- 
noring her  evident  agitation.  "  Come!  what 
do  you  say  to  a  walk  down  through  the 
Park  ?  To-day  is  a  holiday  for  me  —  a 
day  to  be  marked  with  a  white  stone.  I 
have  registered  an  oath  that  I  will  not  even 
look  at  a  pen.  Will  you  not  help  me  to 
keep  it?" 

"By  all  means,"  she  answered  blithely. 
"  I  will  take  you  home  with  me,  and  keep 
you  there  till  the  hour  of  temptation  has 
passed.  To-day  is  to  be  my  last  day  of 
idleness!    I  too  have  need  of  a  white  stone." 

"  We  will  place  them,"  he  said,  "  side  by 
side." 


147 


CHAPTER   X 

ll/TATRAVERS'  luncheon  party 
marked  the  termination  for  some 
time  of  any  confidential  intercourse  be- 
tween Berenice  and  himself.  Every  mo- 
ment of  her  time  was  claimed  by  Fergus- 
son,  who,  in  his  anxiety  to  produce  a  play 
from  which  he  hoped  so  much  before  the 
wane  of  the  season,  gave  no  one  any  rest, 
and  worked  himself  almost  into  a  fever. 
There  were  two  full  rehearsals  a  day,  and 
many  private  ones  at  her  rooms.  Matrav- 
ers  calling  there  now  and  then  found  Fer- 
gusson  always  in  possession,  and  by  degrees 
gave  it  up  in  despair.  He  had  a  horror  of 
interfering  in  any  way,  even  of  being  asked 
for  his  advice  concerning  the  practical  re- 
production of  his  work.  Fergusson*s  invi- 
148 


••  Po  you  know  that  man  is  driving  me  slowly  mad  ?' 


BERENICE 

tations  to  the  rehearsals  at  the  theatre  he 
rejected  absolutely.  As  the  time  grew 
shorter,  Berenice  became  pale  and  almost 
haggard  with  the  unceasing  work  which 
Fergusson's  anxiety  imposed  upon  her. 
One  night  she  sent  for  Matravers,  and 
hastening  to  her  rooms,  he  found  her  for 
the  first  time  alone. 

"  I  have  sent  Mr.  Fergusson  home,"  she 
exclaimed,  welcoming  him  with  outstretched 
hands,  but  making  no  effort  to  rise  from 
her  easy  chair.  "  Do  you  know  that  man  is 
driving  me  slowly  mad?  I  want  you  to 
interfere." 

"What  can  I  do? "  he  said. 

"  Anything  to  bring  him  to  reason !  He 
is  over-rehearsing!  Every  line,  every  sen- 
tence, every  gesture,  he  makes  the  subject 
of  the  most  exhaustive  deliberation.  He 
will  have  nothing  spontaneous;  it  is  posi- 
tively stifling.  A  few  more  days  of  it  and 
my  reason  will  go!  He  is  a  great  actor, 
151 


BERENICE 

but  he  does  not  seem  to  understand  that  to 
reduce  everything  to  mathematical  propor- 
tions is  to  court  failure." 

"  I  will  go  and  see  him,"  Matravers  said. 
"  You  wish  for  no  more  rehearsals,  then?  " 

"  I  do  not  want  to  see  his  face  again  be- 
fore the  night  of  the  performance,"  she 
declared  vehemently.  "  I  am  perfect  in  my 
part.  I  have  thought  about  it  —  dreamed 
about  it.  I  have  lived  more  as  '  Bathilde ' 
than  as  myself  for  the  last  three  weeks. 
Perhaps,"  she  continued  more  slowly,  "  you 
will  not  be  satisfied.  I  scarcely  dare  to 
hope  that  you  will  be.  Yet  I  have  reached 
my  limitations.  The  more  I  am  made  to 
rehearse  now,  the  less  natural  I  shall  be- 
come." 

*'  I  will  speak  to  Fergusson,"  Matravers 
promised.  "  I  will  go  and  see  him  to-night. 
But  so  far  as  you  are  concerned,  I  have  no 
fear;  you  will  be  the  'Bathilde'  of  my 
heart  and  my  brain.  You  cannot  fail!  " 
152 


BERENICE 

She  rose  to  her  feet.  "  It  is,"  she  said, 
"  the  desire  of  my  hfe  to  make  your  *  Ba- 
thilde '  a  creature  of  flesh  and  blood.  If 
I  fail,  I  will  never  act  again." 

"  If  you  fail,"  he  said,  "  the  fault  will 
be  in  my  conception,  not  in  your  execution. 
But  indeed  we  will  not  consider  anything 
so  improbable.  Let  us  put  the  play  behind 
us  for  a  time  and  talk  of  something  elsel 
You  must  be  weary  of  it." 

She  shook  her  head.  "  Not  that!  never 
that!  Just  now  it  is  my  life,  only  it  is  the 
details  which  weary  me,  the  eternal  harp- 
ing upon  the  mechanical  side  of  it.  Will 
you  read  to  me  for  a  little?  and  I  will  make 
you  some  coffee.  You  are  not  in  a  hurry, 
are  you? " 

"  I  have  come,"  he  said,  "  to  stay  with 
you  until  you  send  me  away!  I  will  read 
to  you  with  pleasure.  What  will  you 
have?" 

She  handed  him  a  little  volume  of  poems ; 
153 


BERENICE 

he  glanced  at  the  title  and  made  a  faint 
grimace.    They  were  his  own. 

Nevertheless,  he  read  for  an  hour,  till  the 
streets  below  grew  silent,  and  his  own  voice, 
unaccustomed  to  such  exercise,  lost  some- 
thing of  its  usual  clearness.  Then  he  laid 
the  volume  down,  and  there  was  silence 
between  them. 

"  I  have  been  thinking,"  he  said  at  last, 
"  of  a  singular  incident  in  connection  with 
your  performance  at  the  New  Theatre; 
it  was  brought  into  my  mind  just  then.  I 
meant  to  have  mentioned  it  before." 

She  looked  up  with  only  a  slight  show  of 
interest.  Those  days  at  the  theatre  seemed 
to  her  now  to  be  very  far  behind.  There 
was  nothing  in  connection  with  them  which 
she  cared  to  remember. 

"  It  was  the  night  of  my  first  visit  there," 

he  continued.    "  There  is  a  terrible  scene  at 

the  end  of  the  second  act  between  Herdrine 

and    her    husband  —  you    recollect    it,    of 

154 


BERENICE 

course.  Just  as  you  finished  your  denun- 
ciation, I  distinctly  heard  a  curious  cry 
from  the  back  of  the  house.  It  was  a 
greater  tribute  to  your  acting  than  the  ap- 
plause, for  it  was  genuine.'* 

"  The  piece  was  gloomy  enough,"  she 
remarked,  "  to  have  dissolved  the  house  in 
tears." 

"  At  least,"  he  said,  "  it  wrung  the  heart 
of  one  man.  For  I  have  not  told  you  all. 
I  was  interested  enough  to  climb  up  into 
the  amphitheatre.  The  man  sat  there  alone 
amongst  a  wilderness  of  empty  seats.  He 
was  the  picture  of  abject  misery.  I  could 
scarcely  see  his  face,  but  his  attitude  was 
convincing.  It  was  not  a  thing  of  chance 
either.  I  made  some  remark  about  him  to 
an  attendant,  and  he  told  me  that  night 
after  night  that  man  had  occupied  the  same 
seat,  always  following  every  line  of  the 
play  with  the  same  mournful  concentration, 
never  speaking  to  any  one,  never  moving 
155 


BERENICE 

from  his  seat  from  the  beginning  of  the 
play  to  the  end." 

"  He  must  have  been,"  she  declared,  "  a 
person  of  singularly  morbid  taste.  When 
I  think  of  it  now  I  shiver.  I  would  not 
play  Herdrine  again  for  worlds." 

*'  I  am  very  glad  to  hear  you  say  so,"  he 
said,  smiling.  "  Do  you  know  that  to  me 
the  most  interesting  feature  of  the  play 
was  its  obvious  effect  upon  this  man.  Its 
extreme  pessimism  is  too  much  paraded,  is 
laid  on  altogether  with  too  thick  a  hand  to 
ring  true.  The  thing  is  an  involved  night- 
mare. One  feels  that  as  a  work  of  art  it 
is  never  convincing,  yet  underneath  it  all 
there  must  be  something  human,  for  it 
found  its  way  into  the  heart  of  one  man." 

*'  It  is  possible,"  she  remarked,  *'  that  he 
was  mad.  The  man  who  found  it  suffi- 
ciently amusing  to  come  to  the  theatre  night 
after  night  could  scarcely  have  been  in  full 
possession  of  his  senses." 
156 


BERENICE 

"That  is  possible,"  he  admitted;  "but 
I  do  not  beHeve  it.  The  man's  face  was  sad 
enough,  but  it  was  not  the  face  of  a  mad- 
man." 

"  You  did  see  his  face,  then?  " 

"  On  the  last  night  of  the  play,"  he  con- 
tinued. "  You  remember  you  were  going 
on  to  Lady  Truton's,  so  I  did  not  come 
behind.  But  I  had  a  fancy  to  see  you  for 
a  moment,  and  I  came  round  into  Pitt 
Street  just  as  you  were  driving  off.  On 
the  other  side  of  the  way  this  man  was 
standing  watching  you!" 

She  looked  at  him  with  a  suddenly  kin- 
dled interest  —  or  was  it  fear?  —  in  her 
dark  eyes.  The  colour  had  left  her  cheeks; 
she  was  white  to  the  Hps. 

"Watching  me?" 

"  Yes.     As  your  carriage  drove  off  he 

stood    watching    it.      I    don't   know    what 

prompted  me,  but  I  crossed  the  street  to 

speak  to  him.     He   seemed   such   a  lone, 

157 


BERENICE 

mournful  figure  standing  there  half  dazed, 
shabby,  muttering  softly  to  himself.  But 
when  he  saw  me  coming,  he  gave  one  half- 
frightened  look  at  me  and  ran,  literally 
ran  down  the  street  on  to  the  Strand.  I 
could  not  follow,  —  the  police  would  have 
stopped  him.     So  he  disappeared." 

"  You  saw  his  face.    What  was  he  like?  " 

Berenice  had  leaned  right  back  amongst 
the  yielding  cushions  of  her  divan,  and  he 
could  scarcely  see  her  face.  Yet  her  voice 
sounded  to  him  strange  and  forced.  He 
looked  at  her  in  some  surprise. 

"  I  had  a  glimpse  of  it.  It  was  an  ordi- 
nary face  enough;  in  fact,  it  disappointed 
me  a  little.  But  the  odd  part  of  it  was 
that  it  seemed  vaguely  familiar  to  me.  I 
have  seen  it  before,  often.  Yet,  try  as  I 
will,  I  cannot  recollect  where,  or  under 
what  circumstances." 

"  At  Oxford,"  she  suggested.     "  By  the 
bye,  what  was  your  college? " 
158 


BERENICE 

"  St.  John's.  No,  I  do  not  think,  —  I 
hope  that  it  was  not  at  Oxford.  Some  day 
I  shall  think  of  it  quite  suddenly." 

Berenice  rose  from  her  chair  with  a  sud- 
den, tempestuous  movement  and  stood  be- 
fore him. 

"Listen!"  she  exclaimed.  "Supposing 
I  were  to  tell  you  that  I  knew  or  could 
guess  who  that  man  was  —  why  he  came  I 
Oh,  if  I  were  to  tell  you  that  I  were  a 
fraud,  that " 

Matravers  stopped  her. 

"  I  beg,"  he  said,  "  that  you  will  tell  me 
nothing! " 

There  was  a  short  silence.  Berenice 
seemed  on  the  point  of  breaking  down. 
She  was  nervously  lacing  and  interlacing 
her  fingers.  Her  breath  was  coming  spas- 
modically. 

"  Berenice,"  he  said  softly,  "  you  are 
overwrought;  you  are  not  quite  yourself 
to-night.  Do  not  tell  me  anything.  In- 
159 


BERENICE 

deed,  there  is  no  need  for  me  to  know; 
just  as  you  are  I  am  content  with  you,  and 
proud  to  be  your  friend." 

"Ah  I" 

She  sat  down  again.  He  could  not  see 
her  face,  but  he  fancied  that  she  was  weep- 
ing. He  himself  found  his  customary  se- 
renity seriously  disturbed.  Perhaps  for  the 
first  time  in  his  life  he  found  himself  not 
wholly  the  master  of  his  emotions.  The 
atmosphere  of  the  little  room,  the  perfume 
of  the  flowers,  the  soft  beauty  of  the  woman 
herself,  whose  breath  fell  almost  upon  his 
cheek,  affected  him  as  nothing  of  the  sort 
had  ever  done  before.  He  rose  abruptly  to 
his  feet. 

"  You  will  be  so  much  better  alone,"  he 
said,  taking  her  fingers  and  smoothing  them 
softly  in  his  for  a  moment.  "  I  am  going 
away  now." 

"Yes.    Good-by!" 

At  the  threshold  he  paused.  She  had 
160 


BERENICE 

not  looked  up  at  him.  She  was  still  sitting 
there  with  bowed  head  and  hidden  face. 
He  closed  the  door  softly,  and  went  out. 


161 


CHAPTER   XI 

rriHE  enthusiasm  with  which  Matravers' 
play  had  been  received  on  the  night 
of  its  first  appearance  was,  if  anything, 
exceeded  on  the  night  before  the  temporary 
closing  of  the  theatre  for  the  usual  summer 
vacation.  The  success  of  the  play  itself  had 
never  been  for  a  moment  doubtful.  For 
once  the  critics,  the  general  press,  and  the 
public,  were  in  entire  and  happy  agreement. 
The  first  night  had  witnessed  an  extraor- 
dinary scene.  An  audience  as  brilliant  as 
any  which  could  have  been  brought  together 
in  the  first  city  in  the  world,  had  flatly  re- 
fused to  leave  the  theatre  until  Matrav- 
ers himself,  reluctant  and  ill-pleased,  had 
joined  Fergusson  and  Berenice  before  the 
footlights;  and  now  on  the  eve  of  its  tem- 
162 


BERENICE 

porary  withdrawal  something  of  the  same 
sort  was  threatened  again,  and  Matravers 
only  escaped  by  standing  up  in  the  front 
of  his  box,  and  bowing  his  acknowledg- 
ments to  the  delighted  audience. 

It  was  a  well-deserved  success,  for  cer- 
tainly as  a  play  it  was  a  brilliant  excep- 
tion to  anything  which  had  lately  been  pro- 
duced upon  the  English  stage.  The  worn- 
out  methods  and  motives  of  most  living 
playwrights  were  rigorously  avoided;  every- 
thing about  it  was  fresh  and  spontaneous. 
Its  sentiment  was  relieved  by  the  most  deli- 
cate vein  of  humour.  It  was  everywhere 
tender  and  human.  The  dialogue,  to  which 
Matravers  had  devoted  his  usual  fastidious 
care,  was  polished  and  sprightly;  there  was 
not  anywhere  a  single  dull  or  unmusical 
line.  It  was  a  classic,  the  critics  declared, 
—  the  first  literary  play  by  a  living  author 
which  London  had  witnessed  for  many 
years.  The  bookings  for  months  ahead 
163 


BERENICE 

were  altogether  phenomenal.  Fergusson 
saw  a  certain  fortune  within  his  hands,  and 
Matravers,  sharing  also  in  the  golden  har- 
vest, found  another  and  a  still  greater  cause 
for  satisfaction. 

For  Berenice  had  justified  his  selection. 
The  same  night,  as  the  greatest  of  critics, 
speaking  through  the  columns  of  the  prin- 
cipal daily  paper,  had  said,  which  had  pre- 
sented to  them  a  new  writer  for  the  stage, 
had  given  them  also  a  new  actress.  She 
had  surprised  Matravers,  she  had  amazed 
Fergusson,  who  found  himself  compelled  to 
look  closely  to  his  own  laurels.  In  short, 
she  was  a  success,  descended,  if  not  from 
the  clouds,  at  least  from  the  mists  of  Istein- 
ism,  but  accorded,  without  demur  or  hesita- 
tion, a  foremost  place  amongst  the  few 
accepted  actresses.  Her  future  and  his 
position  were  absolutely  secured,  and  her 
reputation,  as  Matravers  was  happy  to 
think,  was  made,  not  as  the  portrayer  of 
164 


BERENICE 

a  sickly  and  unnatural  type  of  diseased 
womanhood,  but  as  the  woman  of  his  own 
creation,  a  very  sweet  and  pure  English 
lady. 

The  house  emptied  at  last,  and  Matrav- 
ers  made  his  way  behind,  where  many  of 
Fergusson's  friends  had  gathered  together, 
and  where  congratulations  were  the  order 
of  the  day.  A  species  of  informal  recep- 
tion was  going  on,  champagne  cup  and 
sandwiches  were  being  handed  around  and 
a  general  air  of  extreme  good  humour  per- 
vaded the  place.  Berenice  was  the  centre 
of  a  group  of  men  amongst  whom  Matrav- 
ers  was  annoyed  to  see  Thorndyke.  If  he 
could  have  withdrawn  unseen,  he  would 
have  done  so;  but  already  he  was  sur- 
rounded. A  little  stir  at  the  entrance  at- 
tracted his  attention.  He  turned  round 
and  found  Fergusson  presenting  him  to  a 
royal  personage,  who  was  graciously 
pleased,  however,  to  remember  a  former 
165 


BERENICE 

meeting,  and  waved  away  the  words  of  in- 
troduction. 

It  chanced,  without  any  design  on  his 
part,  that  Berenice  and  he  left  almost  at 
the  same  time,  and  met  near  the  stage  door. 
She  dropped  Fergusson's  arm  —  he  had 
left  his  guests  to  see  her  to  her  carriage 
—  and  motioned  to  Matravers. 

"Won't  you  see  me  home?"  she  asked 
quietly.  "  I  have  sent  my  maid  on,  she  was 
so  tired,  and  I  am  all  alone." 

"  I  shall  be  very  pleased,"  Matravers  an- 
swered. "May  I  come  in  with  you?" 
Fergusson  lingered  for  a  moment  or  two  at 
the  carriage  door,  and  then  they  drove  off. 
Berenice,  with  a  little  sigh,  leaned  back 
amongst  the  cushions. 

"  You  are  very  tired,  I  am  afraid,"  he 
said  gently.  "  The  last  few  weeks  must 
have  been  a  terrible  strain  upon  you." 

"  They  have   been   in   many   ways,"   she 
said,  "  the  happiest  of  my  life." 
166 


BERENICE 

"  I  am  glad  of  that ;  yet  it  is  quite  time 
that  you  had  a  rest." 

She  did  not  answer  him,  —  she  did  not 
speak  again  until  the  carriage  drew  up 
before  her  house.  He  handed  her  out,  and 
opened  the  door  with  the  latch-key  which 
she  passed  over  to  him. 

"  Good  night,"  he  said,  holding  out  his 
hand. 

"  You  must  please  come  in  for  a  little 
time,"  she  begged.  "  I  have  seen  you 
scarcely  at  all  lately.  You  have  not  even 
told  me  about  your  travels." 

He  hesitated  for  a  moment,  then  seeing 
the  shade  upon  her  face,  he  stepped  for- 
ward briskly. 

"  I  should  like  to  come  very  much,"  he 
said,  "  only  you  must  be  sure  to  send  me 
away  if  I  stay  too  long.  You  are  tired 
already." 

"  I  am  tired,"  she  admitted,  leading  the 
way  upstairs,  "  only  it  will  rest  me  much 
167 


BERENICE 

more  to  have  you  talk  to  me  than  to  go  to 
bed.  Mine  is  scarcely  a  physical  fatigue. 
My  nerves  are  all  quivering.  I  could  not 
sleep!    Tell  me  where  you  have  been." 

Matravers  took  the  seat  to  which  she 
motioned  him,  and  obeyed  her,  watching, 
whilst  she  stooped  down  over  the  fire  and 
poured  water  into  a  brazen  coffee-pot,  and 
took  another  cup  and  saucer  from  a  quaint 
little  cupboard.  She  made  the  coffee  care- 
fully and  well,  and  JNIatravers,  as  he  lit  his 
cigarette,  found  himself  wondering  at  this 
new  and  very  natural  note  of  domesticity  in 
her. 

All  the  time  he  was  talking,  telling  her 
in  a  few  chosen  sentences  of  the  little  tour 
for  which  she  really  was  responsible  —  of 
the  pink-and-white  apple-blossoms  of  Brit- 
tany, of  the  peasants  in  their  quaint  and 
picturesque  garb,  and  of  the  old  time-worn 
churches,  the  exploration  of  which  had  con- 
stituted his  chief  interest.  She  listened 
168 


Matravers  found  himself  wondering  at  this  new  and  very  natural 
note  of  domesticity  in  her 


BERENICE 

eagerly;  every  word  of  his  description,  so 
vivid  and  picturesque,  was  interesting. 
When  he  had  finished,  he  looked  at  her 
thoughtfully. 

"You  too,"  he  said,  "need  a  change! 
You  have  worked  very  hard,  and  you  will 
need  all  your  strength  for  the  autumn  sea- 
son. 

"  I  am  going  away,"  she  said,  "  very 
soon.     Perhaps  to-morrow." 

He  looked  at  her  surprised. 

"So  soon!" 

"Why  not?  What  is  there  to  keep  me? 
The  theatre  is  closed.  London  is  positively 
stifling.     I  am  longing  for  some  fresh  air." 

He  was  silent  for  a  moment  or  two.  It 
was  so  natural  that  she  should  go,  and  yet 
in  a  sense  it  was  so  unexpected.  Looking 
steadily  across  at  her  as  she  leaned  back 
amongst  the  cushions  of  her  chair,  her  dark 
eyes  watching  his  face,  her  attitude  and 
expression  alike  convincing  him  in  some 
171 


BERENICE 

subtle  way  of  her  satisfaction  at  his  pres- 
ence, he  became  suddenly  conscious  that 
the  time  which  he  had  dimly  anticipated 
with  mingled  fear  and  pleasure  was  now 
close  at  hand.  His  heart  was  beating  with 
a  quickened  throb!  He  was  aghast  as  he 
realized  with  quick,  unerring  truth  the  full 
effect  of  her  words  upon  him.  He  drew  a 
sharp  little  breath  and  walked  to  the  open 
window,  taking  in  a  long  draught  of  the 
fresh  night  air,  sweetly  scented  with  the 
perfume  of  the  flowers  in  her  boxes.  Her 
voice  came  to  him  low  and  sweet  from  the 
interior  of  the  room. 

"  There  is  a  little  farmhouse  in  Devon- 
shire which  belongs  to  me.  It  is  nothing 
but  a  tumbledown,  grey  stone  place;  but 
there  are  hills,  and  meadows,  and  country 
lanes,  and  the  sea.     I  want  to  go  there." 

'*  Away  from  me!  "  he  cried  hoarsely. 

"Will  you  come  too?"  she  murmured. 

He  turned  back  into  the  room  and  looked 
172 


She  did  not  answer  him.     But  indeed  there  was  no  need 


BERENICE 

at  her.  She  was  standing  up,  coming 
towards  him;  a  faint  tinge  of  pink  colour 
had  stained  her  cheek  —  her  bosom  was 
heaving  —  her  eyes  were  challenging  his 
with  a  light  which  needed  no  borrowed 
brilliancy.  Go  with  her!  The  man's  birth- 
right, his  passion,  which  through  the  long 
days  of  his  austere  life  had  lain  dormant 
and  undreamt  of  swept  up  from  his  heart. 
He  held  out  his  arms,  and  she  came  across 
the  room  to  him  with  a  sweet  effort  of  self- 
yielding  which  yet  waited  for  while  it  in- 
vited his  embrace. 

"  You  mean  it? "  he  murmured,  "  you 
are  sure? " 

She  did  not  answer  him.  But  indeed 
there  was  no  need. 


175 


CHAPTER   XII 

ly/TATRAVERS  never  altogether  forgot 
the  sensations  with  which  he  awoke 
on  the  following  morning.  Notwithstand- 
ing a  sleepless  night,  he  rose  and  made  a 
dehberate  toilet  with  a  wonderful  buoyancy 
of  spirits.  The  change  which  had  come 
into  his  life  was  a  thing  so  wonderful  that 
he  could  scarcely  realize  it.  Yet  it  was 
true!  He  had  found  the  one  experience  in 
life  which  had  hitherto  been  denied  him, 
and  he  was  amazed  at  the  full  extent  of  its 
power  and  sweetness.  He  felt  himself  to 
be  many  years  younger!  Old  dreams  and 
enthusiasms  were  suddenly  revived.  Once 
more  his  foot  seemed  to  be  poised  upon  the 
threshold  of  life!  After  all,  he  had  not  yet 
reached  middle  age!  He  was  surprised  to 
176 


BERENICE 

find  himself  so  young.  ^larriage,  although 
so  far  as  regarded  himself  he  had  never 
imagined  it  a  possible  part  of  his  hfe,  was 
a  condition  against  which  he  held  no  vows. 
Instinctively  he  felt  that  with  Berenice, 
existence  must  inevitably  become  a  fuller 
and  a  richer  thing.  The  old  days  of  philo- 
sophic quietude,  of  self-contained  and  cul- 
tured ease,  had  been  in  themselves  very 
pleasant,  but  his  was  altogether  too  large 
a  nature  to  become  in  any  way  the  slave  of 
habit.  He  looked  forward  to  their  aban- 
donment without  regret,  —  what  was  to 
come  would  be  a  continuation  of  the  best 
part  of  them  set  to  the  sweetest  music.  He 
was  conscious  of  holding  himself  differently 
as  he  entered  his  breakfast-room!  Was  it 
his  fancy,  or  was  the  perfume  of  his  little 
bowl  of  roses  indeed  more  sweet  this  morn- 
ing, the  sunshine  mellower  and  warmer,  the 
flavour  of  his  grapes  more  delicate?  At 
any  rate,  he  ate  with  a  rare  appetite,  and 
177 


BERENICE 

then  whilst  he  smoked  a  cigarette  after- 
wards, an  idea  came  to  him!  The  colour 
rose  in  his  cheeks,  —  he  felt  like  a  boy.  In 
a  few  minutes  he  was  walking  through  the 
streets,  smiling  softly  to  himself  as  he 
thought  of  his  strange  errand. 

He  found  his  way  to  a  jeweller's  shop 
in  Bond  Street,  and  asked  for  pearls!  They 
were  the  only  jewels  she  cared  for,  and  he 
made  a  deliberate  and  careful  choice,  won- 
dering more  than  once,  with  a  curious  sort 
of  shyness,  whether  the  man  who  served  him 
so  gravely  had  any  idea  for  what  pur- 
pose he  was  buying  the  ring  which  had  been 
the  object  of  his  first  inquiry.  He  walked 
home  with  a  little  square  box  in  his  hand, 
and  a  much  smaller  one  in  his  waistcoat 
pocket.  On  the  pavement  he  had  hesitated 
for  a  moment,  but  a  glance  at  his  watch  had 
decided  him.  It  was  too  early  to  go  and 
see  her  yet.  He  walked  back  to  his  rooms! 
There  was  a  little  work  which  he  must  fin- 
178 


BERENICE 

ish  during  the  day.    He  had  better  attempt 
it  at  once. 

On  his  desk  a  letter  was  waiting  for  him. 
With  a  little  tremor  of  pleasure  he  recog- 
nized her  handwriting.  He  took  it  over  to 
the  tall  sunny  window,  with  a  smile  of  an- 
ticipation upon  his  lips.  He  broke  the  seal 
and  read: 

"  My  love,  the  daylight  has  come,  and  I 
am  here  where  you  left  me,  a  very  happy 
and  yet  a  very  unhappy  woman!  Is  it  in- 
deed only  a  few  hours  since  we  parted?  It 
all  seems  so  different.  The  starlight  and 
the  night  wind  and  the  deep,  sweet  silence 
have  gone!  There  is  a  great  shaft  of  yel- 
low light  in  the  sky,  and  a  bank  of  purple 
clouds  where  the  sun  has  risen.  Only  the 
perfume  of  your  roses  lying  crushed  in  my 
lap  remains  to  prove  to  me  that  it  has  not 
all  been  a  very  sweet  dream.  Dearest,  I 
have  a  secret  to  tell  you,  —  the  sorrow  of 
179 


BERENICE 

my  life.  The  time  has  come  when  you 
must,  alas!  know  it.  Last  night  it  was 
enough  for  me  to  hear  you  tell  me  of  your 
love!  Nothing  else  in  the  world  seemed 
worthy  of  a  moment's  thought.  But  as  you 
were  leaving,  you  whispered  something 
about  our  marriage.  How  sweetly  it 
sounded,  —  and  yet  how  bitterly!  For, 
dear,  I  can  never  marry  you.  I  am  already 
married!  I  can  see  you  start  when  you 
read  this.  You  will  blame  me  for  having 
kept  this  secret  from  you.  Very  likely  you 
will  be  angry  with  me.  Only  for  the  love 
of  God  pity  me  a  little! 

"  My  story  is  so  commonplace.  I  can 
tell  it  you  in  a  few  sentences.  I  married 
when  I  was  seventeen  at  my  father's  com- 
mand, to  save  him  from  ruin.  ^ly  husband, 
like  my  father,  was  a  city  merchant.  I  did 
not  love  him,  but  then  I  did  not  know  what 
love  was.  My  girlhood  was  a  miserable 
one.  My  father  belonged  to  the  sect  of 
180 


BERENICE 

Calvinists.  Our  home  was  hideous,  and  we 
were  poor.  Any  release  from  it  was  wel- 
come. John  Drage,  the  man  whom  I  mar- 
ried, had  one  good  quality.  He  was  gen- 
erous. He  bought  me  pictures,  and  books 
—  things  which  I  always  craved.  When 
my  father's  command  came,  it  did  not  seem 
a  hardship.  I  married  him.  He  was  not  so 
much  a  bad  man,  perhaps,  as  a  weak  one. 
We  lived  together  for  four  years.  I  had 
one  child,  a  little  boy.  Then  I  made  a  hor- 
rible discovery.  My  husband,  whom  I 
knew  to  be  a  drunkard,  was  hideously,  de- 
basingly  false  to  me.  The  bald  facts  are 
these.  I  myself  saw  him  drunk  and  helped 
into  his  carriage  by  one  of  those  women 
whose  trade  it  is  to  prey  upon  such  crea- 
tures. This  was  not  an  exceptional  occur- 
rence.    It  was  a  habit. 

"  There,  I  have  told  you.    It  would  have 
hurt  me  less  to  have  cut  off  my  right  hand. 
But   there   shall   be   no   misunderstanding, 
181 


BERENICE 

nor  any  concealment  between  us.  I  left 
John  Drage's  house  that  night.  I  took  lit- 
tle Freddy  with  me;  but  when  I  refused 
to  return,  he  stole  the  child  away  from  me. 
Then  I  drew  a  sharp  line  at  that  point  in 
my  life.  I  had  neither  friend  nor  relation, 
but  there  was  some  money  which  had  been 
left  me  soon  after  my  marriage.  I  lived 
alone,  and  I  began  to  write.  That  is  my 
story.     That  is  why  I  cannot  marry  you. 

"  Dear,  I  want  you,  now  that  you  know 
my  very  ugly  history,  to  consider  this. 
Whilst  I  was  married,  I  was  faithful  to  my 
husband;  since  then  I  have  been  faithful 
to  my  self-respect.  But  I  have  told  myself 
always  that  if  ever  the  time  came  when  I 
should  love,  I  would  give  myself  to  that 
man  without  hesitation  and  without  shame. 
And  that  time  has  come,  dear.  You  know 
that  I  love  you!  Your  coming  has  been 
the  great  awakening  joy  of  my  life.  Noth- 
ing that  has  gone  before,  nothing  that  the 
182 


BERENICE 

future  may  hold,  can  ever  trouble  me  if  we 
are  together  —  you  and  I.  I  have  suffered 
more  than  most  women.  But  you  will  help 
me  to  forget  it. 

"I  sit  here  with  my  face  to  the  morning, 
arid  I  seem  to  see  a  new  hfe  stretching  out 
before  me.  Is  not  love  a  beautiful  thing  I 
I  am  not  ambitious  any  more.  I  do  not 
want  any  other  object  in  hfe  than  to  make 
you  happy,  and  to  be  made  happy  by  you. 
I  began  this  letter  with  a  heavy  heart  and 
with  trembling  fingers.  But  now  I  am 
quite  calm  and  quite  happy.  I  know  that 
you  will  come  to  me.  You  see  I  have  great 
faith  in  your  love.    Thank  God  for  it! 

"  Berenice." 

The  letter  fluttered  from  Matravers'  fin- 
gers on  to  the  floor.  For  several  minutes 
he  stood  quite  still,  with  his  hand  pressed 
to  his  heart.  Then  he  calmly  seated  him- 
self in  a  little  easy  chair  which  stood  by  his 
183 


BERENICE 

side,  with  its  back  to  the  window.  He  had 
a  curious  sense  of  being  suddenly  removed 
from  his  own  personality,  —  his  own  self. 
He  was  another  man  gazing  for  the  last 
time  upon  a  very  familiar  scene. 

He  sat  there  with  his  head  resting  upon 
the  palm  of  his  hand,  looking  with  linger- 
ing eyes  around  his  little  room,  even  the 
simplest  objects  of  which  were  in  a  sense 
typical  of  the  life  which  he  was  abandon- 
ing. He  knew  that  that  life,  if  even  its 
influence  had  not  been  wide,  had  been  a 
studiously  well-ordered  and  a  seemly  thing. 
A  touch  of  that  ultra  sestheticism,  which 
had  given  to  all  his  writings  a  peculiar  tone 
and  individuality,  had  permeated  also  his 
ideas  as  to  the  simplest  events  of  living. 
All  that  was  commonplace  and  ugly  and 
vicious  had  ever  repelled  him.  He  had 
lived  not  only  a  clean  life,  but  a  sweet  one. 
His  intense  love  for  pure  beauty,  combined 
with  a  strong  dash  of  epicureanism,  had 
184 


BERENICE 

given  a  certain  colour  to  its  outward  form 
as  well  as  to  its  inward  workings.  Even 
the  simplest  objects  by  which  he  was  sur- 
rounded were  the  best  of  their  kind,  —  care- 
fully and  faithfully  chosen.  The  smallest 
details  of  his  daily  life  had  always  been 
governed  by  a  love  of  comely  and  kindly 
order.  Both  in  his  conversation  and  in  his 
^vTitings  he  had  studiously  avoided  all  ex- 
cess, all  shadow  of  evil  or  unkindness.  His 
opinions,  well  chosen  and  deliberate  though 
they  were,  were  flavoured  with  a  delicate 
temperateness  so  distinctive  of  the  man  and 
of  his  habits.  And  now,  it  was  all  to  come 
to  an  end!  He  was  about  to  sever  the 
cords,  to  cut  himself  adrift  from  all  that 
had  seemed  precious,  and  dear,  and  beauti- 
ful to  him.  He,  to  whom  even  the  women 
of  the  streets  had  been  as  sacred  things,  was 
about  to  become  the  established  and  the 
open  lover  of  a  woman  whom  he  could 
never  marry.  To  a  certain  extent  it  was 
185 


BERENICE 

like  moral  shipwreck  to  him.  Yet  he  loved 
her!  He  was  sure  of  that.  He  had  called 
himself  in  the  past,  as  indeed  he  had  every 
right  to,  something  of  a  philosopher;  but 
he  had  never  tried  to  harden  within  himself 
the  human  leaven  which  had  kept  him,  in 
sympathy  and  kindliness,  always  in  close 
touch  with  his  fellows.  And  this  was  its 
fruit!  To  him  of  all  men  there  had  come 
this.  .  .  . 

Soon  he  found  himself  in  the  street,  on 
his  way  to  her.  Such  a  letter  as  this  called 
for  no  delay.  It  was  barely  twelve  o'clock 
when  he  rang  the  bell  at  her  house.  The 
girl  who  answered  it  handed  him  a  note. 
He  asked  quickly  for  her  mistress. 

She  left  an  hour  ago  by  the  early  train, 
he  was  told.    She  has  gone  into  the  country. 

She  had  made  up  her  mind  quite  sud- 
denly, and  had  not  even  taken  her  maid. 
The  address  would  probably  be  in  the  let- 
ter. 

186 


BERENICE 

Still  standing  on  the  doorstep,  he  tore 
open  the  note  and  read  it.  There  were  only 
a  few  lines. 

"  Dearest,  can  you  take  a  short  holiday? 
I  have  a  fancy  to  have  you  come  to  me  at 
my  little  house  in  Devonshire.  London  is 
stifling  me,  and  I  want  to  taste  the  full 
sweetness  of  my  happiness.  You  see  I  do 
not  doubt  you!  I  know  that  you  will  come. 
Shall  you  mind  a  tiresome  railway  journey? 
The  address  is  Bossington  Old  Manor 
House,  Devonshire,  and  the  station  is  Mine- 
head.  Wire  what  train  you  are  coming  by, 
and  I  will  send  something  to  meet  you. 

"  Berenice.'* 


187 


CHAPTER   XIII 

ly/TATRAVERS  walked  back  to  his 
rooms  and  ordered  his  portmanteau  to 
be  packed.  Then  he  went  out,  and  after 
making  all  his  arrangements  for  an  absence 
from  town,  bought  a  Bradshaw.  There 
were  two  trains,  he  found,  by  which  he 
could  travel,  one  at  three,  the  other  at  half- 
past  four.  He  arranged  to  catch  the  earlier 
one,  and  drove  to  his  club  for  lunch.  Af- 
terwards he  strolled  towards  the  smoking- 
room,  but  finding  it  unusually  full,  was  on 
the  point  of  withdrawing.  As  he  lingered 
on  the  threshold,  a  woman's  name  fell  upon 
his  ears.  The  speaker  was  Mr.  Thorndyke. 
He  became  rigid. 

"  Why,  yes,  I  gave  her  the  victoria,"  he 
was   saying.      "  We    called    it    a   birthday 
188 


BERENICE 

present,  or  something  of  that  sort.  I  sup- 
posed every  one  knew  about  that.  Those 
little  arrangements  generally  are  known 
somehow! " 

The  innuendo  was  unmistakable.  Ma- 
travers  advanced  with  his  usual  leisurely 
walk  to  the  little  group  of  men. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said  quietly. 
"  I  understood  ISIr.  Thorndyke  to  say,  I 
believe,  that  he  had  given  a  carriage  to  a 
certain  lady.    Am  I  correct?  " 

Thorndyke  turned  upon  him  sharply. 
There  was  a  sudden  silence  in  the  crowded 
room.  iVlatravers'  clear,  cold  voice,  al- 
though scarcely  raised  above  the  pitch  of 
ordinary  conversation,  had  penetrated  to 
its  furthest  corner. 

"  And  if  I  did,  sir!    ^Vhat " 

"  These  gentlemen  will  bear  me  witness 
that  you  did  say  so?"  Matravers  inter- 
rupted calmly.  "  I  regret  to  have  to  use 
unpleasant  language,  ^Ir.  Thorndyke,  but 
189 


BERENICE 

I  am  compelled  to  tell  you,  and  these  gen- 
tlemen, that  your  statement  is  a  lie ! " 

Thorndyke  was  a  florid  and  a  puffy  man. 
The  veins  upon  his  temples  stood  out  like 
whipcord.  He  was  not  a  pleasant  sight  to 
look  upon. 

"  What  do  you  mean,  sir? "  he  splut- 
tered. "  The  carriage  was  mine  before  she 
had  it.    Everybody  recognizes  it." 

"  Exactly.  The  carriage  was  yours.  You 
intended  every  one  to  recognize  it.  But 
you  have  omitted  to  state,  both  here  and 
in  other  places,  that  the  lady  bought  that 
carriage  from  you  for  two  hundred  and 
sixty  guineas  —  a  good  deal  more  than  its 
worth,  I  should  imagine.  You  heard  her 
say  that  she  was  thinking  of  buying  a  vic- 
toria, and  you  offered  her  yours  —  pressed 
her  to  buy  it.  It  was  too  small  for  your 
horses,  you  said,  and  you  were  hard  up. 
You  even  had  it  sent  round  to  her  stables 
without  her  consent.  I  have  heard  this 
190 


'  I  am  compelled  to  tell  you,  and  these  gentlemen,  that  youi 
statement  is  a  lie  ! " 


BERENICE 

story  before,  sir,  and  I  have  furnished 
myself  with  proofs  of  its  falsehood.  This, 
gentlemen,"  he  added,  drawing  some  pa- 
pers from  his  pocket,  "  is  Mr.  Thorndyke's 
receipt  for  the  two  hundred  and  sixty 
guineas  for  a  victoria,  signed,  as  you  will 
see,  in  his  own  handwriting,  and  here  is  the 
lady's  cheque  with  Mr.  Thorndyke's  en- 
dorsement, cancelled  and  paid." 

The  papers  were  handed  round.  Thorn- 
dyke  picked  up  his  hat,  but  Matravers 
barred  his  egress. 

"  With  regard  to  the  insinuation  which 
you  coupled  with  your  falsehood,"  he  con- 
tinued, "  both  are  equally  and  absolutely 
false.  I  know  her  to  be  a  pure  and  upright 
woman.  A  short  time  ago  you  took  ad- 
vantage of  your  position  to  make  certain 
cowardly  and  disgraceful  propositions  to 
her,  since  when  her  doors  have  been  closed 
upon  you!  I  would  have  you  know,  sir, 
and  remember,  that  the  honour  of  that  lady, 
193 


BERENICE 

whom  last  night  I  asked  to  be  my  wife,  is 
as  dear  to  me  as  my  own,  and  if  you  dare 
now,  or  at  any  future  time,  to  slander  her, 
I  shall  treat  you  as  you  deserve.  You  can 
go." 

"  And  be  very  careful,  sir,"  thundered 
the  old  Earl  of  Ellesmere,  veteran  member 
of  the  club,  "  that  you  never  show  your  face 
inside  these  doors  again,  or,  egad,  I'm  an 
old  man,  but  I'll  kick  you  out  myself." 

Thorndyke  left  the  room  amidst  a  chill- 
ing and  unsympathetic  silence.  As  soon  as 
he  could  get  away,  JNIatravers  followed  him. 
There  was  a  strange  pain  at  his  heart,  a 
sense  of  intolerable  depression  had  settled 
down  upon  him.  After  all,  what  good  had 
he  done?  Only  a  few  more  days  and  her 
name,  which  for  the  moment  he  had  cleared, 
would  be  besmirched  in  earnest.  His  im- 
peachment of  Thorndyke  would  sound  to 
these  men  then  like  mock  heroics.  There 
would  be  no  one  to  defend  her  any  more. 
194 


BERENICE 

There  would  be  no  defence.  For  ever  in 
the  eyes  of  all  these  people  she  was  doomed 
to  become  one  of  the  JNIagdalens  of  the 
world. 

It  seemed  a  very  unreal  London  through 
which  ]Matravers  was  whirled  on  his  way 
from  the  club  to  Paddington.  But  before 
a  third  of  the  distance  was  accomplished, 
there  was  a  sudden  check.  A  little  boy, 
who  had  wandered  from  his  nurse  in  cross- 
ing the  road,  narrowly  escaped  being  run 
over  by  a  carriage  and  pair,  only  to  find 
himself  knocked  down  by  the  shaft  of  Ma- 
travers'  hansom.  There  was  a  cry,  and  the 
driver  pulled  his  horse  on  to  her  haunches, 
but  apparently  just  a  second  too  late. 
With  a  sickening  sense  of  horror,  Matrav- 
ers  saw  the  little  fellow  literally  under  the 
horse's  feet,  and  heard  his  shrill  cry  of 
terror. 

He  leaped  out,  and  was  the  first  to  pick 
195 


BERENICE 

the  child  up,  immeasurably  relieved  to  find 
that  after  all  he  was  not  seriously  hurt. 
His  clothes  were  torn,  and  his  hands  were 
scratched,  and  there,  apparently,  the  mis- 
chief ended.  Matravers  lifted  him  into  the 
cab,  and  turned  to  the  frightened  nurse-girl 
for  the  address. 

"  Nine,  Greenfield  Gardens,  West  Ken- 
sington, sir,"  she  told  him ;  "  and  please 
tell  the  master  it  wasn't  my  fault.  He  is 
so  venturesome,  I  can't  control  him  nohow. 
His  name  is  Drage  —  Freddy  Drage,  sir." 

And  then  once  more  Matravers  felt  that 
strange  dizziness  which  had  come  to  him 
earlier  in  the  day.  Again  he  had  that  curi- 
ous sense  of  moving  in  a  dream,  as  though 
he  had,  indeed,  become  part  of  an  unreal 
and  shadowy  world.  The  renewed  motion 
of  the  cab  as  they  drove  back  again  along 
Pall  Mall,  recalled  him  to  himself.  He 
leaned  back  and  looked  at  the  boy  steadily. 

Yes,  they  were  her  eyes.  There  was  no 
196 


BERENICE 

doubt  about  it.  The  little  fellow,  not  in  the 
least  shy,  and,  in  fact,  now  become  rather 
proud  of  his  adventure,  commenced  to  prat- 
tle very  soon.  Matravers  interrupted  him 
with  a  question,  — 

"  Won't  your  mother  be  frightened  to 
see  you  like  this?  "  The  child  stared  at  him 
with  wide-open  eyes. 

"  Why,  mammy  ain't  there,"  he  ex- 
claimed. "  Mammy  went  away  ever  so 
long  ago.  I  don't  think  she's  dead,  though, 
'cos  daddy  wouldn't  let  me  talk  about  her, 
only  just  lately,  since  he  was  ill.  You  see," 
he  went  on  with  an  explanatory  wave  of  the 
hand,  "  daddy's  been  a  very  bad  man. 
He's  better  now  —  leastways,  he  ain't  so 
bad  as  he  was;  but  I  'spect  that's  why 
mammy  went  away.    Don't  you?  " 

"  I  daresay,  Freddy,"  Matravers  an- 
swered softly. 

"  We're  getting  very  near  now,"  Freddy 
remarked,  looking  over  the  apron  of  the 
197 


BERENICE 

cab.  "  My!  won't  dada  be  surprised  to  see 
me  drive  up  in  a  cab  with  you!  I  hope  he's 
at  the  window !  " 

"  Will  your  father  be  at  home  now? " 
Matravers  asked. 

Freddy  stared  at  him. 

"  Why,  of  course !  Dad's  always  at 
home!  Is  my  face  very  buggy?  Don't 
rub  it  any  more,  please.  That's  Jack  Ma- 
son over  there!  I  play  with  him.  I  want 
him  to  see  me.  Hullo!  Jack,"  he  shouted, 
leaning  out  of  the  cab,  "  I've  been  run  over, 
right  over,  face  all  buggy.  Look  at  it! 
Hands  too,"  spreading  them  out.  "  He's 
a  nice  boy,"  Freddy  continued  as  the  cab 
turned  a  corner,  "  but  he  can't  run  near  so 
fast  as  me,  and  he's  lots  older.  Hullo!  here 
we  are!"  kicking  vigorously  at  the  apron. 

Matravers  looked  up  in  surprise.     They 

had   stopped   short   before   a   long   row   of 

shabby-genteel   houses   in   the    outskirts   of 

Kensington.       He    took    the    boy's     out- 

198 


BERENICE 

stretched  hand  and  pushed  open  the  gate. 
The  door  was  open,  and  Freddy  dragged 
him  into  a  room  on  the  gromid  floor. 

A  man  was  lying  on  a  sofa  before  the 
window,  wrapped  in  an  mitidy  dressing- 
gown,  and  with  the  lower  part  of  his  body 
covered  up  with  a  rug.  His  face,  fair  and 
florid,  with  more  than  a  suggestion  of  coarse- 
ness in  the  heavy  jaw  and  thick  lips,  was 
drawn  and  wrinkled  as  though  with  pain. 
His  lips  wore  an  habitually  peevish  expres- 
sion. He  did  not  offer  to  rise  when  they 
came  in.  IMatravers  was  thankful  that 
Freddy  spared  him  the  necessity  of  imme- 
diate speech.  He  had  recognized  in  a  mo- 
ment the  man  who  had  sat  alone  night  after 
night  in  the  back  seats  of  the  New  Thea- 
tre, whose  slow  drawn-out  cry  of  agony 
had  so  curiously  affected  him  on  that  night 
of  her  performance.  He  recognized,  too, 
the  undergraduate  of  his  college  sent  down 
for  flagrant  misbehaviour,  the  leader  of  a 
199 


BERENICE 

set  whom  he  himself  had  denounced  as  a 
disgrace  to  the  University.  And  this  man 
was  her  husband! 

"  Daddy,"  the  boy  cried,  dropping  Ma- 
travers'  hand  and  running  over  to  the  couch, 
"I've  been  run  over  by  a  hansom  cab,  and 
I'm  all  buggy,  but  I  ain't  hurt,  and  this 
gentleman  brought  me  home.  Daddy  can't 
get  up,  you  know,"  Freddy  explained;  "  his 
legs  is  bad." 

"Run  over,  eh!"  exclaimed  the  man  on 
the  couch.  "  It's  like  that  girl's  damned 
carelessness." 

He  patted  the  boy's  head,  not  unkindly, 
and  Matravers  found  words. 

"  My  cab  unfortunately  knocked  your 
little  boy  down  near  Trafalgar  Square,  but 
I  am  thankful  to  say  that  he  was  not  hurt. 
I  thought  that  I  had  better  bring  him 
straight  home,  though,  as  he  has  had  a  roll 
in  the  dust." 

At  the  sound  of  Matravers'  voice,  the 
200 


BERENICE 

man  started  and  looked  at  him  earnestly. 
A  dull  red  flush  stained  his  cheeks.  He 
looked  away. 

"  It  was  very  good  of  you,  Mr.  Matrav- 
ers,"  he  said.  "  I  can't  think  what  the  girl 
could  have  been  about." 

"  I  did  not  see  her  until  after  the  acci- 
dent. I  am  glad  that  it  was  no  worse," 
IMatravers  answered.  "  You  have  not  for- 
gotten me,  then?" 

John  Drage  shook  his  head. 

"  No,  sir,"  he  said.  "  I  have  not  forgot- 
ten you.  I  should  have  known  your  voice 
anywhere.  Besides,  I  knew  that  you  were 
in  London.  I  saw  you  at  the  New  Thea- 
tre." 

There  was  a  short  silence.  Matravers 
glanced  around  the  room  with  an  inward 
shiver.  The  usual  horrors  of  a  suburban 
parlour  were  augmented  by  a  general  slov- 
enliness, and  an  obvious  disregard  for  any 
sort  of  order. 

201 


BERENICE 

"  I  am  afraid,  Drage,"  he  said  gently, 
"  that  things  have  not  gone  well  with  you." 

"  You  are  quite  right,"  the  man  answered 
bitterly.  "  They  have  not!  They  have  gone 
very  wrong  indeed;  and  I  have  no  one  to 
blame  but  myself." 

"  I  am  sorry,"  Matravers  said.  "  You 
are  an  invalid,  too,  are  you  not? " 

"I  am  worse  than  an  invalid,"  the  man 
on  the  couch  groaned.  "  I  am  a  prisoner 
on  my  back,  most  likely  for  ever;  curse  it! 
I  have  had  a  paralytic  stroke.  I  can't  think 
why  I  couldn't  die!  It's  hard  lines!  — 
damned  hard  lines!  I  wish  I  were  dead 
twenty  times  a  day!  I  am  alone  here  from 
morning  to  night,  and  not  a  soul  to  speak 
to.  If  it  wasn't  for  Freddy  I  should  jolly 
soon  end  it! " 

"The  little  boy's  mother?"  Matravers 
ventured,  with  bowed  head. 

"  She  left  me  —  years  ago.  I  don't 
know  that  I  blame  her,  particularly.  Sit 
202 


BERENICE 

down,  if  you  will,  for  a  bit.  I  never  have 
a  visitor,  and  it  does  me  good  to  talk.'* 

Matravers  took  the  only  unoccupied 
chair,  and  drew  it  back  a  little  into  the 
darker  part  of  the  room. 

"  You  remember  me  then,  Drage,"  he  re- 
marked. "  Yet  it  is  a  long  time  since  our 
college  days." 

"  I  knew  you  directly  I  heard  your  voice, 
sir,"  the  man  answered.  "  It  seemed  to 
take  me  back  to  a  night  many  years  ago 
—  I  want  you  to  let  me  remind  you  of  it. 
I  should  like  you  to  know  that  I  never  for- 
got it.  We  were  at  St.  John's  then;  you 
were  right  above  me  —  in  a  different  world 
altogether.  You  were  a  leader  amongst  the 
best  of  them,  and  I  was  a  hanger-on 
amongst  the  worst.  You  were  in  with  the 
gentlemen  set  and  the  reading  set.  Neither 
of  them  would  have  anything  to  do  with 
me  —  and  they  were  quite  right.  I  was 
what  they  thought  me  —  a  cad.  I'd  no 
203 


BERENICE 

head  for  work,  and  no  taste  for  anything 
worth  doing,  and  I  wasn't  a  gentleman, 
and  hadn't  sense  to  behave  Hke  one.  I'd 
no  right  to  have  been  at  the  University  at 
all,  but  my  poor  old  dad  would  have  me  go. 
He  had  an  idea  that  he  could  make  a  gen- 
tleman of  me.    It  was  a  mistake !  " 

Matravers  moved  slightly  in  his  chair,  — 
he  was  suffering  tortures. 

"Is  it  worth  while  recalling  all  these 
things?  "  he  asked  quietly.  "  Life  cannot 
be  a  success  for  all  of  us;  yet  it  is  the  fu- 
ture, and  not  the  past." 

"  I  have  no  future,"  the  man  interrupted 
doggedly;  '"  no  future  here,  or  in  any  other 
place.  I  have  got  my  deserts.  I  wanted 
to  remind  you  of  that  night  when  you  came 
to  see  me  in  my  rooms,  after  I'd  been  sent 
down  for  being  drunk.  I  suppose  you  were 
the  first  gentleman  who  had  ever  crossed 
my  threshold,  and  I  remember  wondering 
what  on  earth  you'd  come  for!  You  didn't 
204 


BERENICE 

lecture  me,  and  you  didn't  preach.  You 
came  and  sat  down  and  smoked  one  of  my 
cigars,  and  talked  just  as  though  we  were 
friends,  and  tried  to  make  me  see  what  a 
fool  I  was.  It  didn't  do  much  good  in  the 
end  —  but  I  never  forgot  it.  You  shook 
hands  with  me  when  you  left,  and  for  once 
in  my  life  I  was  ashamed  of  myself." 

"  I  am  sorry,"  Matravers  said  with  an 
effort,  "  that  I  did  not  go  to  see  you 
oftener." 

Drage  shook  his  head. 

"  It  was  too  late  then !  I  was  done  for,  — 
done  for  as  far  as  Oxford  was  concerned. 
But  that  was  only  the  beginning.  I  might 
easily  have  picked  up  if  I'd  had  the  pluck! 
The  dad  forgave  me,  and  made  me  a  part- 
ner in  the  business  before  he  died.  I  was 
a  rich  man,  and  I  might  have  been  a  mil- 
lionaire; instead  of  that  I  was  a  damned 
fool!  I  can't  help  swearing!  you  mustn't 
mind,  sir!  Remember  what  I  am!  I  don't 
205 


BERENICE 

swear  when  Freddy's  in  the  room,  if  I  can 
help  it.  I  went  the  pace,  drank,  kept 
women,  and  all  the  rest  of  it.  My  wife 
found  me  out  and  went  away.  I  ain't  say- 
ing a  word  against  her.  She  was  a  good 
woman,  and  I  was  a  bad  man,  and  she  left 
me!  She  was  right  enough!  I  wasn't  fit 
for  a  decent  woman  to  live  with.  All  the 
same,  I  missed  her;  and  it  was  another 
kick  down  Hellward  for  me  when  she  went. 
I  got  desperate  then;  I  took  to  drink  worse 
than  ever,  and  I  began  to  let  my  business 
go  and  speculate.  You  wouldn't  know 
anything  of  the  city,  sir;  but  I  can  tell  you 
this,  when  a  cool  chap  with  all  his  wits 
about  him  starts  speculating  outside  his 
business,  it's  touch  and  go  with  him;  when 
a  chap  in  the  state  I  was  in  goes  for  it,  you 
can  spell  the  result  in  four  letters!  It's 
RUIN,  ruin !  That's  what  it  meant  for 
me.  I  lost  two  hundred  thousand  pounds 
in  three  years,  and  my  business  went  to 
20G 


BERENICE 

pot  too.  Then  I  had  this  cursed  stroke,  and 
here  I  am!  I  may  stick  on  for  years,  but 
I  shall  never  be  able  to  earn  a  penny  again. 
Where  Freddy's  schooling  is  to  come  from, 
or  how  we  are  to  live,  I  don't  know  I " 

"  I  am  very  sorry,"  JNIatravers  said  gen- 
tly. "  Have  you  no  friends  then,  or  rela- 
tions who  will  help  you?  " 

"  Not  a  damned  one,"  growled  the  man 
on  the  couch.  "  I  had  plenty  of  pals  once, 
only  too  glad  to  count  themselves  John 
Drage's  friends;  but  where  they  are  now  I 
don't  know.  They  seem  to  have  melted 
away.  There's  never  a  one  comes  near  me. 
I  could  do  without  their  money  or  their 
help,  somehow,  but  it's  damned  hard  to  lie 
here  for  ever  and  have  not  one  of  'em  drop 
in  just  now  and  then  for  a  bit  of  a  talk 
and  a  cheering  word.  That's  what  gives 
me  the  blues!  I  always  was  fond  of  com- 
pany; I  hated  being  alone,  and  it's  like  hell 
to  lie  here  day  after  day  and  see  no  one  but 
207 


BERENICE 

a  cross  landlady  and  a  miserable  servant 
girl.  Lately,  I  can't  bear  to  be  alone  with 
Freddy.  He's  so  damned  like  his  mother, 
you  know.  It  brings  a  lump  in  my  throat. 
I  wouldn't  mind  so  much  if  it  were  only 
myself.  I've  had  my  cake!  But  it's  rough 
on  the  boy!  " 

"It  is  rough  on  the  boy,  and  it  is  rough 
on  you,"  Matravers  said  kindly.  "  I  won- 
der you  have  never  thought  of  sending  him 
to  his  mother!  She  would  surely  like  to 
have  him!  " 

The  man's  face  grew  black. 

"  Not  till  I'm  dead,"  he  said  doggedly. 
"  I  don't  want  him  set  against  me!  He's 
all  I've  got!  I'm  going  to  keep  him  for 
a  bit.  It  ought  not  to  be  so  difficult  for 
us  to  live.  If  only  I  could  get  down  to  the 
city  for  a  few  hours!  " 

"  Could  not  a  friend  there  do  some  good 
for  you?  "  Matravers  asked. 

"  Of  course  he  could,"  Mr.  Drage  an- 
208 


BERENICE 

swered    eagerly;     "but    I    haven't    got    a 
friend.     See  here!" 

He  took  a  little  account  book  from  under 
his  pillow,  and  with  trembling  fingers 
thrust  it  before  his  visitor. 

"  You  see  all  these  amounts.  They  are 
all  owing  to  me  from  those  people  —  money 
lent,  and  one  thing  and  another.  There  is 
an  envelope  with  bills  and  I  O  U's.  They 
belong  to  me,  you  understand,"  he  said, 
with  a  sudden  touch  of  dignity.  "  I  never 
failed!  My  business  was  stopped  when  I 
was  taken  ill,  but  there  was  enough  to  pay 
everybody.  Xow  some  of  these  amounts 
have  never  been  collected.  If  I  could  see 
these  people  myself,  they  would  pay,  or  if  I 
could  get  a  friend  whom  I  could  trust!  But 
there  isn't  a  man  comes  near  me ! " 

"I  —  am  not  a  business  man,"  Matrav- 
ers  said  slowly;    "but  if  you  cared  to  ex- 
plain things  to  me,  I  would  go  into  the  city 
and  see  what  I  could  do." 
209 


BERENICE 

The  man  raised  himself  on  his  elbow  and 
gazed  at  his  visitor  open-mouthed. 

"You  mean  this!"  he  cried  thickly. 
"  Say  it  again,  —  quick!     You  mean  it!" 

"  Certainly,"  Matravers  answered.  "  I 
will  do  what  I  can." 

John  Drage  did  not  doubt  his  good  for- 
tune for  a  moment.  No  one  ever  looked 
into  Matravers'  face  and  failed  to  believe 
him. 

"I  —  I'll  thank  you  some  day,"  he  mur- 
mured. "You've  done  me  up!  Will  you 
—  shake  hands? " 

He  held  out  a  thin  white  hand.  Matrav- 
ers took  it  between  his  own. 

In  a  few  moments  they  were  absorbed  in 
figures  and  explanations.  Finally  the  book 
was  passed  over  to  jVIatravers'  keeping. 

"  I   will   see   what   I    can   do,"   he   said 
quietly.     "  Some  of  these  accounts  should 
certainly  be  recovered.     I  will  come  down 
and  let  you  know  how  I  have  got  on." 
210 


"  You  mean  this  !  "  he  cried  thickly.     "  Say  it  again  —  quick  ! ' 


BERENICE 

"If  you  would!  If  you  don't  mind! 
And,  I  wonder,  —  do  you  take  a  morning 
paper?  If  so,  will  you  bring  it  when  you've 
done  with  it,  or  an  old  one  will  do?  I  can't 
read  anything  but  newspapers;  and  lately 
I  haven't  dared  to  spend  a  penny,  —  be- 
cause of  Freddy,  you  know!  It's  so  cursed 
lonely!" 

"  I  will  come,  and  I  will  bring  you  some- 
thing to  read,"  Matravers  promised.  "  I 
must  go  now! " 

John  Drage  held  out  his  hand  wistfully. 

"  Good-by,"  he  said.  "  You're  a  good 
man  I  I  wish  I'd  been  like  you.  It's  an 
odd  thing  for  me  to  say,  but  —  God  bless 
you,  sir." 

Matravers  stood  on  the  doorstep  with  his 
watch  in  his  hand.  It  was  half -past  three. 
There  was  just  time  to  catch  the  four- 
thirty  from  Waterloo!  For  a  moment  the 
little  street  faded  away  from  before  his 
eyes!  He  saw  himself  at  his  journey's  end! 
213 


BERENICE 

Berenice  was  there  to  meet  him!  A  breath 
of  the  eomitry  came  to  him  on  the  breeze 
—  a  breath  of  sweet-smeUing  flowers,  and 
fresh  moorland  air,  and  the  low  murmur 
of  the  blue  sea.  Yes,  there  was  Berenice, 
with  her  dark  hair  blowing  in  the  wind,  and 
that  look  of  passionate  peace  in  her  pale, 
tired  face!  Her  arms  were  open,  wide 
open!  She  had  been  weary  so  long!  The 
struggle  had  been  so  hard!  and  he,  too,  was 
weary  — — 

He  started!  He  was  still  on  the  door- 
step! Freddy  was  drumming  on  the  pane, 
and  behind,  there  was  a  man  lying  on  the 
couch,  with  his  face  buried  in  his  hands. 
He  waved  his  hand  and  descended  the  steps 
firmly. 

"  Back  to  my  rooms,  147,  Piccadilly,"  he 
told  the  cabman.  "  I  shall  not  be  going 
away  to-day.'* 


214 


CHAPTER   XIV 

A  MAN  wrote  it,  from  his  little  room 
in  the  heart  of  London,  whilst  night 
faded  into  morning.  He  wrote  it  with 
leaden  heart  and  unwilling  mechanical  ef- 
fort—  wrote  it  as  a  man  might  write  his 
own  doom.  Every  fresh  sentence,  which 
stared  up  at  him  from  the  closely  written 
sheets  seemed  like  another  landmark  in  his 
sad  descent  from  the  pinnacles  of  his  late 
wonderful  happiness  down  into  the  black 
waters  of  despair.  When  he  had  finished, 
and  the  pen  slipped  from  his  stiff,  nerveless 
fingers,  there  were  lines  and  marks  in  his 
face  which  had  never  been  there  before,  and 
which   could   never   altogether   pass   away. 

...  A  woman  read  it,  seated  on  a  shelving 

slant  of  moorland  with  the  blue  sky  over- 

215 


BERENICE 

head,  and  the  soft  murmur  of  the  sea  in 
her  ears,  and  the  sunhght  streaming  around 
her.  When  she  had  finished,  and  the  letter 
had  fallen  to  her  side,  crushed  into  a  shape- 
less mass,  the  light  had  died  out  of  the  sky 
and  the  air,  and  the  song  of  the  birds  had 
changed  into  a  wail.  And  this  was  what 
the  man  had  said  to  the  woman :  — 

"  Berenice,  I  have  had  a  dream  I  I 
dreamed  that  I  was  coming  to  you,  that 
you  and  I  were  together  somewhere  in  a 
new  world,  where  the  men  were  gods  and 
the  women  were  saints,  where  the  sun  al- 
ways shone,  and  nothing  that  was  not  pure 
and  beautiful  had  any  place!  And  now  I 
am  awake,  and  I  know  that  there  is  no 
such  world. 

"  You  and  I  are  standing  on  opposite 
sides  of  a  deep,  dark  precipice.  I  may  not 
come  to  you!    You  must  not  come  to  me. 

"  I  have  thought  over  this  matter  with 
all  the  seriousness  which  befits  it.  You  will 
216 


BERENICE 

never  know  how  great  and  how  fierce  the 
struggle  has  been.  I  am  feeling  an  older 
and  a  tired  man.  But  now  that  is  all  over! 
I  have  crossed  the  Rubicon!  The  mists 
have  rolled  away,  and  the  truth  is  very 
clear  indeed  to  me !  I  shudder  when  I  think 
to  what  misery  I  might  have  brought  you, 
if  I  had  yielded  to  that  sweetest  and  most 
fascinating  impulse  of  my  life,  which  bade 
me  accept  your  sacrifice  and  come  to  you. 
Berenice,  you  are  very  young  yet,  and  you 
have  woven  some  new  and  very  beautiful 
fancies  which  you  have  put  into  a  book, 
and  which  the  world  has  found  amusing! 
To  you  alone  they  have  become  the  essence 
of  your  life:  they  have  become  by  constant 
contemplation  a  part  of  yourself.  Out  of 
the  greatness  of  your  heart  you  do  not  fear 
to  put  them  into  practice!  But,  dear,  you 
must  find  a  new  world  to  fit  your  fancies, 
for  the  one  in  which  we  are  forced  to  dwell, 
the  world  which,  in  theory,  finds  them  de- 
217 


BERENICE 

lightful,  would  find  another  and  an  uglier 
word  if  we  should  venture  upon  their  em- 
bodiment! After  all  we  are  creatures  of 
this  world,  and  by  this  world's  laws  we 
shall  be  judged.  The  things  which  are 
right  are  right,  and  the  things  which  are 
pure  are  pure.  Love  is  the  greatest  power 
in  the  world,  but  it  cannot  alter  things 
which  are  unalterable. 

"  Once  when  I  was  climbing  with  a  friend 
of  mine  in  the  Engadine,  we  saw  a  white 
flower  growing  virtually  out  of  a  cleft  in 
the  rocks,  high  above  our  heads.  My  friend 
was  a  botanist,  and  he  would  have  that 
flower!  I  lay  on  my  back  and  watched  him 
struggle  to  reach  it,  watched  him  often 
slipping  backwards,  but  gradually  crawling 
nearer  and  nearer,  until  at  last,  breathless, 
with  torn  clothes  and  bleeding  hands,  he 
grasped  the  tiny  blossom,  and  held  it  out 
to  me  in  triumph!  Together  we  admired 
it  ceaselessly  as  we  retraced  our  steps.  But 
218 


BERENICE 

as  we  left  the  high  altitudes  and  descended 
into  the  valley,  a  change  took  place  in  the 
flower.  Its  petals  drooped,  its  leaves  shrank 
and  faded.  White  became  grey,  the  fresh- 
ness which  had  been  its  chief  beauty  faded 
away  with  every  step  we  took.  My  friend 
kept  it,  but  he  kept  it  with  sorrow  1  It  was 
no  longer  a  beautiful  flower. 

"  Berenice,  you  are  that  flower!  You  are 
beautiful,  and  pure,  and  strong!  You  think 
that  you  are  strong  enough  to  live  in  the 
lowlands,  but  you  are  not!  No  love  of 
mine,  changeless  and  whole  as  it  must  ever 
be,  could  keep  your  soul  from  withering 
in  the  nether  land  of  sin!  For  it  would  be 
sin!  In  these  days  when  you  are  young, 
when  the  fires  of  your  enthusiasm  are  newly 
kindled,  and  the  wings  of  your  imagination 
have  not  been  shorn,  you  may  say  to  your- 
self that  it  is  not  sin!  You  may  say  that 
love  is  the  only  true  and  sweet  shrine  be- 
fore which  we  need  keep  our  lives  holy  and 
219 


BERENICE 

pure,  and  that  the  time  for  regrets  would 
never  come! 

"  Illusion !  I,  too,  have  tried  to  reason 
with  myself  in  this  manner!  I  have  tried 
passionately,  earnestly,  feverishly.  I  have 
failed!  I  cannot!  No  one  can!  I  know 
that  to  you  I  seem  to  be  writing  like  a 
Philistine,  like  a  man  of  a  generation  gone 
by!  You  have  filled  your  little  world  with 
new  ideals,  you  have  lit  it  with  the  lamp  of 
love,  and  it  all  seems  very  real  and  beauti- 
ful to  you !  But  some  day,  though  the  lamp 
may  bum  still  as  brightly  as  ever,  a  great 
white  daylight  will  break  in  through  the 
walls.  You  will  see  things  that  you  have 
never  seen  before,  and  the  light  of  that 
lamp  will  seem  cold  and  dim  and  ghostly. 
Nothing,  nothing  can  ever  alter  the  fact 
that  your  husband  lives,  and  that  your  little 
boy  is  growing  up  with  a  great  void  in  his 
heart.  Some  day  he  will  ask  for  his  mother ; 
even  now  he  may  be  asking  for  her!  Bere- 
220 


BERENICE 

nice,  would  he  ever  look  with  large,  indul- 
gent eyes  upon  that  little  world  of  yours  1 
Alas! 

"  I  have  read  my  letter  over  to  myself, 
Berenice,  and  I  fear  that  it  must  sound  to 
you  very  commonplace,  even  perhaps  cold! 
Yet,  believe  me  when  I  tell  you  that  I  have 
passed  through  a  very  fire  of  suffering,  and 
if  I  am  calm  now  it  is  with  the  calm  of  an 
ineffable  despair!  In  my  life  at  Oxford, 
and  later,  here  in  London,  women  have 
never  borne  any  share.  Part  of  my  scheme 
of  living  has  been  to  regard  them  as  some- 
thing outside  my  little  cycle,  an  influence 
great  indeed,  but  one  which  had  passed  me 

by- 

"  Yet  I  am  now  one  of  the  world's  great 
sufferers,  one  of  those  who  have  found  at 
once  their  greatest  joy  linked  with  an  un- 
utterable despair.  For  I  love  you,  Berenice ! 
Never  doubt  it!  Though  I  should  never 
221 


BERENICE 

look  upon  your  face  again  —  which  God  in 
His  mercy  forbid  —  my  love  for  you  must 
be  for  ever  a  part  and  the  greatest  part  of 
my  life!  Always  remember  that,  I  pray 
you! 

"  It  seems  strange  to  talk  of  one's  plans 
with  such  a  great,  black  cloud  of  sorrow 
filling  the  air!  But  the  outward  form  of 
life  does  not  change,  even  when  the  hght 
has  gone  out  and  one's  heart  is  broken!  I 
have  some  work  before  me  which  I  must 
finish;  when  it  Is  over  I  shall  go  abroad! 
But  that  can  wait!  When  you  are  back  in 
London,  send  for  me!  I  am  schooling  my- 
self to  meet  a  new  Berenice  —  my  friend! 
And  I  have  something  still  more  to  say  to 
you  I  Mateavers." 


222 


CHAPTER   XV 

rPHE  week  that  followed  the  sending  of 
his  letter  was,  to  Matravers,  with  his 
love  for  equable  times  and  emotions,  like 
a  week  in  hell!  He  had  set  himself  a  task 
not  easy  even  to  an  ordinary  man  of  busi- 
ness, but  to  him  trebly  difficult  and  harass- 
ing. Day  after  day  he  spent  in  the  city  — 
a  somewhat  strange  visitor  there,  with  his 
grave,  dignified  manner  and  studied  fastidi- 
ousness of  dress  and  deportment.  He  was 
unversed  in  the  ways  of  the  men  with 
whom  he  had  to  deal,  and  he  had  no  com- 
mercial aptitude  whatever.  But  in  a  quiet 
way  he  was  wonderfully  persistent,  and  he 
succeeded  better,  perhaps,  than  any  other 
emissary  whom  John  Drage  could  have  em- 
ployed. The  sum  of  money  which  he  even- 
223 


BEEENICE 

tually  collected  amounted  to  nearly  fifteen 
hundred  pounds,  and  late  one  evening  he 
started  for  Kensington  with  a  bundle  of 
papers  under  his  arm  and  a  cheque-book 
in  his  pocket. 

It  was  his  last  visit,  —  at  any  rate,  for 
the  present,  —  he  told  himself  with  a  sense 
of  wonderful  relief,  as  he  walked  through 
the  Park  in  the  gathering  twilight.  For 
of  late,  something  in  connection  with  his 
day's  efforts  had  taken  him  every  evening 
to  the  shabby  little  house  at  Kensington, 
where  his  coming  was  eagerly  welcomed  by 
the  tired,  sick  man  and  the  lonely  boy. 
He  had  esteemed  himself  a  man  well 
schooled  in  all  manner  of  self-control,  and 
little  to  be  influenced  in  a  matter  of  duty 
by  his  personal  likes  and  dislikes.  But  these 
visits  were  a  torture  to  him !  To  sit  and  talk 
for  hours  with  a  man,  grateful  enough,  but 
peevish  and  commonplace,  and  with  a  curi- 
ous lack  of  virility  or  self-reliance  in  his 
224 


BERENICE 

untoward  circumstances,  was  trial  enough 
to  Matravers,  who  had  been  used  to  select 
his  associates  and  associations  with  delicate 
and  close  care.  But  to  remember  that  this 
man  had  been,  and  indeed  was,  the  husband 
of  Berenice,  was  madness!  It  was  this 
man,  whom  at  the  best  he  could  only  re- 
gard with  a  kindly  and  gentle  contempt, 
who  stood  between  him  and  such  surprising 
happiness,  this  man  and  the  boy  with  his 
pale,  serious  face  and  dark  eyes.  And  the 
bitterness  of  fate  —  for  he  never  realized 
that  it  would  have  been  possible  for  him  to 
have  acted  otherwise  —  had  made  him  their 
benefactor! 

Just  as  he  was  leaving  the  Park  he 
glanced  up  at  the  sound  of  a  carriage  pass- 
ing him  rapidly,  and  as  he  looked  up  he 
stood  still!  It  seemed  to  him  that  life  itself 
was  standing  still  in  his  veins.  Berenice 
had  been  silent.  There  had  come  no  word 
from  her!  But  nothing  so  tragic,  so  hor- 
225 


BEKENICE 

rible  as  this,  had  ever  occurred  to  him  I  His 
heart  had  been  full  of  black  despair,  and 
his  days  had  been  days  of  misery;  but  even 
the  possibility  of  seeking  for  himself  solace, 
by  means  not  altogether  worthy,  had  never 
dawned  upon  him.  Nor  had  he  dreamed 
it  of  her!  Yet  the  man  who  waved  his  hand 
from  the  box-seat  of  the  phaeton  with  a 
courtesy  seemingly  real,  but,  under  the  cir- 
cumstances, brutally  ironical,  was  Thorn- 
dyke,  and  the  woman  who  sat  by  his  side 
was  Berenice! 

The  carriage  passed  on  down  the  broad 
drive,  and  Matravers  stood  looking  after  it. 
Was  it  his  fancy,  or  was  that,  indeed,  a 
faint  cry  which  came  travelling  through 
the  dim  light  to  his  ears  as  he  stood  there 
under  the  trees  —  a  figure  turned  to  stone. 
A  faint  cry,  or  the  wailing  of  a  lost  spirit! 
A  sudden  dizziness  came  over  him,  and  he 
sat  down  on  one  of  the  seats  close  at  hand. 
There  was  a  singing  in  his  ears,  and  a  pain 
226 


BERENICE 

at  his  heart.    He  sat  there  with  half -closed 
eyes,  battling  with  his  weakness. 

Presently  he  got  up,  and  continued  his 
journey.  He  found  himself  on  the  door- 
step of  the  shabby  little  house,  and  mechan- 
ically he  passed  in  and  told  the  story  of  his 
day's  efforts  to  the  man  who  welcomed  him 
so  eagerly.  With  his  pocket-book  in  his 
hand  he  successfully  underwent  a  searching 
cross-examination,  faithfully  recording  what 
one  man  had  said  and  what  another,  their 
excuses  and  their  protestations.  He  made 
no  mistakes,  and  his  memory  served  him 
amply.  But  when  he  had  come  to  the  end 
of  the  list,  and  had  placed  the  cheque-book 
in  John  Drage's  fingers,  he  felt  that  he 
must  get  away.  Even  his  stoical  endurance 
had  a  measurable  depth.  But  it  was  hard 
to  escape  from  the  man's  most  unwelcome 
gratitude.  John  Drage  had  not  the  tact  to 
recognize  in  his  benefactor  the  man  to  whom 
thanks  are  hateful. 

227  , 


BERENICE 

"  And  I  had  no  claim  upon  you  what- 
ever! "  the  sick  man  wound  up,  half -breath- 
less. "  If  you  had  cut  me  dead,  after  my 
Oxford  disgrace,  it  would  only  have  been 
exactly  what  I  deserved.  That's  what 
makes  it  so  odd,  your  doing  all  this  for  me. 
I  can't  understand  it,  I'm  damned  if  I 
can!" 

Matravers  stood  over  him,  a  silent,  unre- 
sponsive figure,  seeking  only  to  make  his 
escape.  With  difficulty  he  broke  in  upon 
the  torrent  of  words. 

"  Will  you  do  me  the  favour,  Mr.  Drage," 
he  begged  earnestly,  "  of  saying  no  more 
about  it.  Any  man  of  leisure  would  have 
done  for  you  what  I  have  done.  If  you 
really  wish  to  afford  me  a  considerable  hap- 
piness, you  can  do  so." 

"Anything  in  this  world!"  John  Drage 
declared  vehemently. 

Matravers  thought  for  a  moment.  The 
proposition  which  he  was  about  to  make 
228 


BERENICE 

had  been  in  his  mind  from  the  first.     The 
time  had  come  now  to  put  it  into  words. 

"  You  must  not  be  offended  at  what  I 
am  going  to  say,"  he  began  gently.  "  I 
am  a  rich  man,  and  I  have  taken  a  great 
fancy  to  your  boy.  I  have  no  children  of 
my  own;  in  fact,  I  am  quite  alone  in  the 
world.  If  you  will  allow  me,  I  should  like 
to  undertake  Freddy's  education." 

A  light  broke  across  the  man's  coarse 
face,  momentarily  transfiguring  it.  He 
raised  himself  on  his  elbow,  and  gazed  at 
his  visitor  with  eager  scrutiny.  Then  he 
drew  a  deep  sigh,  and  there  were  tears  in 
his  eyes.  He  did  not  say  a  word.  Ma- 
travers  continued. 

*'  It  will  be  a  great  pleasure  for  me,"  he 
said  quietly.  "  What  I  propose  is  to  invest 
a  thousand  pounds  for  that  purpose  in 
Freddy's  name.  In  fact,  I  have  taken  the 
liberty  of  already  doing  it.  The  papers  are 
here." 

229 


BERENICE 

Matravers  laid  an  envelope  on  the  little 
table  between  them.    Then  he  rose  up. 

"  Will  you  forgive  me  now,"  he  said,  "  if 
I  hurry  away?  I  will  come  and  see  you 
again,  and  we  will  talk  this  over  more 
thoroughly. 

And  still  John  Drage  said  nothing,  but 
he  held  out  his  hand.  Matravers  pressed 
the  thin  fingers  between  his  own. 

"  You  must  see  Freddy,"  he  said  eagerly. 
"  I  promised  him  that  he  should  come  in 
before  you  went." 

But  Matravers  shook  his  head.  There 
was  a  pain  at  his  heart  like  the  cutting  of 
a  knife. 

"  I  cannot  stay  another  instant,"  he  de- 
clared. "  Send  Freddy  over  to  my  rooms 
any  time.  Let  him  come  and  have  tea  with 
me  I" 

Then  they  parted,  and  INIatravers  walked 
through  a  world  of  strange  shadows  to 
Berenice's  house.  Her  maid,  recognizing 
230 


BERENICE 

him,  took  him  up  to  her  room  without  cere- 
mony. The  door  was  softly  opened  and 
shut.  He  stood  upon  the  threshold.  For 
a  moment  everything  seemed  dark  before 
him. 


231 


CHAPTER   XVI 

T>ERENICE  seemed  to  dwell  always  in 
the  twilight.  At  first  JNIatravers 
thought  that  the  room  was  empty,  and  he 
advanced  slowly  towards  the  window.  And 
then  he  stopped  short.  Berenice  was  lying 
in  a  crumpled  heap  on  the  low  couch,  al- 
most within  touch  of  his  hands.  She  was 
lying  on  her  side,  her  supple  figure  all 
doubled  up,  and  the  folds  of  her  loose  gown 
flowing  around  her  in  wild  disorder.  Her 
face  was  half  hidden  in  her  clasped  hands. 

"  Berenice,"  he  cried  softly. 

She  did  not  answer.  She  was  asleep. 
He  stood  looking  down  upon  her,  his  heart 
full  of  an  infinite  tenderness.  She,  too,  had 
suffered,  then.  Her  hair  was  in  wild  con- 
fusion, and  there  were  marks  of  recent  tears 
232 


Berenice  was  lying  in  a  crumpled  heap  on  the  low  couch 


BERENICE 

upon  her  pale  cheeks.  A  little  lace  hand- 
kerchief had  slipped  from  her  fingers  down 
on  to  the  floor.  He  picked  it  up.  It  was 
wet!  The  glow  of  the  heavily-shaded  lamp 
was  upon  her  clasped  white  fingers  and  her 
bowed  head.  He  watched  the  rising  and 
falling  of  her  bosom  as  she  slept.  To  him, 
so  great  a  stranger  to  women  and  their 
ways,  there  was  a  curious  fascination  in 
all  the  trifling  details  of  her  toilette  and 
person,  the  innate  daintiness  of  which  ap- 
pealed to  him  with  a  very  potent  and  in- 
sidious sweetness.  Whilst  she  slept,  he  felt 
as  one  far  removed  from  her.  It  was  like 
a  beautiful  picture  upon  which  he  was  gaz- 
ing. The  passion  which  had  been  raging 
within  him  like  an  autumn  storm  was  sud- 
denly stilled.  Only  the  purely  aesthetic 
pleasure  of  her  presence  and  his  contem- 
plation of  it  remained.  It  seemed  to  him 
then  that  he  would  have  had  her  stay  thus 
for  ever!  Before  his  fixed  eyes  there 
235 


BERENICE 

floated  a  sort  of  mystic  dream.  There  was 
another  world  —  was  it  the  world  of  sleep 
or  of  death?  —  where  they  might  join 
hands  and  dwell  together  in  beautiful 
places,  and  there  was  no  one,  not  even  their 
consciences,  to  say  them  nay.  The  dust 
of  earthly  passion  and  sin,  and  all  the  com- 
monplace miseries  of  life,  had  faded  for 
ever  from  their  knowledge.  It  was  their 
souls  which  had  come  together  .  .  .  and 
there  was  a  wonderful  peace. 

Then  she  opened  her  eyes  and  looked  up 
at  him.  There  was  no  more  dreaming! 
The  old,  miserable  passion  flooded  his  heart 
and  senses.  His  feet  were  upon  the  earth 
again!  The  whole  world  of  those  strange, 
poignant  sensations,  stronger  because  of 
their  late  coming,  welled  up  within  him. 

"Berenice!" 

She  was  only  half  awake,  and  she  held 
up  her  soft,  white  arms  to  him,  gleaming 
like  marble  through  the  lace  of  her  wide 

236 


BERENICE 

sleeves.  She  looked  up  at  him  with  the 
faint  smile  of  a  child. 

"My  love!" 

He  stooped  down,  and  her  arms  closed 
around  him  like  a  soft  yoke.  But  he  kissed 
her  forehead  so  lightly  that  she  scarcely 
realized  that  this  was  almost  his  first  caress. 

"  Berenice,  you  have  been  angry  with 
me!" 

She  sat  up,  and  the  lamplight  fell  upon 
his  face. 

"  You  have  been  ill,"  she  cried  in  a 
shocked  tone. 

"  It  is  nothing.  I  am  well.  But  to- 
night —  I  had  a  shock ;  I  saw  you  with 
—  Mr.  Thorndyke!" 

Her  eyes  met  his.  The  hideous  phantom 
which  had  been  dogging  his  steps  was  slain. 
He  was  ashamed  of  that  awful  but  name- 
less fear. 

"  It  is  true.  Mr.  Thorndyke  has  offered 
me  an  apology,  which  I  am  forced  to  be- 
237 


BERENICE 

lieve  sincere.     He  has  asked  me  to  be  his 
wife!    I  was  sorry  for  him." 

"  He  is  a  bad  man  I  He  has  spoken  ill 
of  you!    He  has  already  a  wife!  " 

"  I  am  glad  of  it.     I  can  obey  my  in- 
stincts now,  and  see  him  no  more.     Per 
sonally  he  is  distasteful  to  me!     I  had  an 
idea  he  was  honest!    It  is  nothing!" 

She  dismissed  the  subject  with  a  wave  of 
the  hand.  To  her  it  was  altogether  a  minor 
matter.     Then  she  looked  at  him. 

"Well!" 

"  You  never  answered  my  letter." 

"  No,  there  was  no  answer.  I  came 
back." 

"  You  did  not  let  me  know." 

"  You  will  find  a  message  at  your  rooms 
when  you  get  back." 

He  walked  up  and  down  the  room.     He 
knew  at  once  that  all  he  had  done  hitherto 
had  been  in  vain.     The  battle  was  still  be- 
fore him.     She  sat  and  watched  him  with 
238 


BERENICE 

an  inscrutable  smile.  Once  as  he  passed 
her,  she  laid  her  hand  upon  his  arm.  He 
stopped  at  once. 

"  Your  white  flower  was  born  to  die  and 
to  wither,"  she  said.  "  A  night's  frost 
would  have  killed  it  as  surely  as  the  low- 
land air.  It  is  like  these  violets."  She  took 
a  bunch  from  her  bosom.  "  This  morning 
they  were  fresh  and  beautiful.  Now  they 
are  crushed  and  faded!  Yet  they  have 
lived  their  life." 

She  threw  them  down  upon  the  floor. 

"  Do  you  think  a  woman  is  like  that?  " 
she  said  softly.  "  You  are  very,  very  igno- 
rant!    She  has  a  soul." 

He  held  out  his  hand. 

"  A  soul  to  keep  white  and  pure.  A  soul 
to  give  back  —  to  God !  " 

Again    she    smiled    at   him    slowly,    and 

shook  her  dark  head.      "  You   are   like   a 

child  in  some  things!     You  have  lived  so 

long  amongst  the  dry  bones  of  scholarship, 

239 


BERENICE 

that  you  have  lost  your  touch  upon  human- 
ity. And  of  us  women,  you  know  —  so  very 
little.  You  have  tried  to  understand  us 
from  books.  How  foolish !  You  must  be 
my  disciple,  and  I  will  teach  you." 

"It  is  not  teaching,"  he  cried;  "it  is 
temptation." 

She  turned  upon  him  with  a  gleam  of 
passion  in  her  eyes. 

"  Temptation!  "  she  cried.  "  There  spoke 
the  whole  selfishness  of  the  philosopher,  the 
dilettante  in  morals!  What  is  it  that  you 
fear?  It  is  the  besmirchment  of  your  own 
ideals,  your  own  little  code  framed  and 
moulded  with  your  own  hands.  What  do 
you  know  of  sin  or  of  purity,  you,  who  have 
held  yourself  aloof  from  the  world  with  a 
sort  of  delicate  care,  as  though  you,  for- 
sooth, were  too  precious  a  thing  to  be  soiled 
with  the  dust  of  human  passion  and  human 
love!  That  is  where  you  are  all  wrong. 
That  is  where  you  make  your  great  mistake. 
240 


BERENICE 

You  have  judged  without  experience.  You 
speak  of  a  soul  which  may  be  stained  with 
sin;  you  have  no  more  knowledge  than  the 
Pharisees  of  old  what  constitutes  sin.  Love 
can  never  stain  anything!  Love  that  is  con- 
stant and  true  and  pure  is  above  the  mar- 
riage laws  of  men;  it  is  above  your  little 
self-constructed  ideals;  it  is  a  thing  of 
Heaven  and  of  God!  You  wrote  to  me  like 
a  child,  —  and  you  are  a  child,  for  until  you 
have  learnt  what  love  is,  you  are  without 
understanding." 

Suddenly  her  outstretched  hands  dropped 
to  her  side.  Her  voice  became  soft  and 
low;   her  dark  eyes  were  dimmed. 

"  Come  to  me,  and  you  shall  know.  I 
will  show  you  in  what  narrow  paths  you 
have  been  wandering.  I  will  show  you  how 
beautiful  a  woman's  love  can  make  your 
life!" 

"  If  we  can  love  and  be  pure,"  he  said 
hoarsely,  "  what  is  sin?    What  is  that?  " 
241 


BERENICE 

He  was  standing  by  the  window,  and  he 
pointed  westwards  with  shaking  finger. 
The  roar  of  Piccadilly  and  Regent  Street 
came  faintly  into  the  little  room.  She 
imderstood  him. 

"  You  have  a  great  deal  to  learn,  dear," 
she  whispered  softly.  "  Remember  this 
first,  and  before  all,  Love  can  sanctify 
everything." 

"But  they  too  loved  in  the  beginning!" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  That  they  never  could  have  done.  Love 
is  eternal.  If  it  fades  or  dies,  then  it  never 
was  love.    Then  it  was  sin." 

"  But  those  poor  creatures !  How  are 
they  to  tell  between  the  true  love  and  the 
false? " 

She  stamped  her  foot,  and  a  quiver  of 
passion  shook  her  frame. 

"  We  are  not  talking  about  them.  We 
are  talking  about  ourselves!  Do  you  doubt 
your  love  or  mine? " 

242 


BERENICE 

"I  cannot,"  he  answered.     "Berenice I" 

"Yes!" 

"  Did  you  ever  tell  —  your  husband  that 
you  loved  him? " 

"  Never! " 

"Did  he  love  you?" 

"  I  believe,  so  far  as  he  knew  how  to  love 
anything,  —  he  did." 

"And  now?" 

She  waved  her  hand  impatiently. 

"  He  has  forgotten.  He  was  shallow, 
and  he  was  fond  of  life.  He  has  found 
consolation  long  ago.  Do  not  talk  of  him. 
Do  not  dare  to  speak  of  him  again!  Oh, 
why  do  you  make  me  humble  myself  so?  " 

"  He  may  not  have  forgotten.  He  may 
have  repented.  He  may  be  longing  for 
you  now,  —  and  suffering.  Should  we  be 
sinless  then?  " 

She  swept  from  her  place,  and  stood  be- 
fore him  with  flashing  eyes. 

"  I  forbid  you  to  remind  me  of  my 
243 


BERENICE 

shame.  I  forbid  you  to  remind  me  that  I, 
too,  like  those  poor  women  on  the  street, 
have  been  bought  and  sold  for  money!  I 
have  worked  out  my  own  emancipation.  I 
am  free.  It  was  while  I  was  living  with 
him  as  his  wife  that  I  sinned,  —  for  I  hated 
him!  Speak  to  me  no  more  of  that  time! 
If  you  cannot  forget  it,  you  had  better 
go!" 

He  stretched  out  his  hands  and  held  hers 
tightly. 

"  Berenice,  if  you  were  alone  in  the 
world,  and  there  was  some  great  barrier 
to  our  marriage,  I  would  not  hesitate  any 
longer.  I  would  take  you  to  myself. 
Don't  think  too  hardly  of  me.  I  am  like 
a  man  who  is  denying  himself  heaven.  But 
your  husband  lives.  You  belong  to  him. 
You  do  not  know  whether  he  is  in  pros- 
perity, or  whether  he  has  forgotten.  You 
do  not  know  whether  he  has  repented,  or 
whether  his  life  is  still  such  as  to  justify 
244 


BERENICE 

your  taking  the  law  into  your  own  hands, 
and  forsaking  him  for  ever.  Listen  to  me, 
dear!  If  you  will  find  out  these  things,  if 
you  can  say  to  yourself  and  to  me,  and  to 
your  conscience,  '  he  has  found  happiness 
without  me,  he  has  ignored  and  forgotten 
the  tie  between  us,  he  does  not  need  my 
sympathy,  or  my  care,  or  my  companion- 
ship,' then  I  will  have  no  more  scruples. 
Only  let  us  be  sure  that  you  are  morally 
free  from  that  man." 

She  wrenched  her  hands  away  from  his. 
There  was  a  bright,  red  spot  of  colour  flar- 
ing on  her  cheeks.     Her  eyes  were  on  fire. 

"  You  are  mad!  "  she  cried;  "  you  do  not 
love  me!  No  man  can  know  what  love  is 
who  talks  about  doubts  and  scruples  like 
you  do!  You  are  too  cold  and  too  selfish 
to  realize  what  love  can  be!  And  to  think 
that  I  have  stopped  to  reason,  to  reason 
with  you!  Oh!  my  God!  What  have  I 
done  to  be  humbled  like  this? " 
245 


BERENICE 

"Berenice!" 

"  Leave  me !  Don't  come  near  me  any 
morel  I  shall  thrust  you  out  of  my  life! 
You  never  loved  me!  I  could  not  have 
loved  you!  Go  away!  It  has  been  a  hid- 
eous mistake ! " 

"Berenice!" 

"My  God!  Will  you  leave  me?"  she 
moaned.  "You  are  driving  me  mad!  I 
hate  you! " 

Her  white  hand  flashed  out  into  the 
darkness,  as  though  she  would  have  struck 
him!    He  bowed  his  head  and  went. 


246 


CHAPTER   XVII 

lUTATR AVERS  knew  after  that  night 
that  his  was  a  broken  Hfe.  Any  fu- 
ture such  as  he  had  planned  for  himself  of 
active,  intellectual  toil  had  now,  he  felt,  be- 
come impossible.  His  ideals  were  all 
broken  down.  A  woman  had  found  her 
way  in  between  the  joints  of  an  armour 
which  he  had  grown  to  believe  impenetra- 
ble, and  henceforth  life  was  a  wreck.  The 
old,  quiet  stoicism,  which  had  been  the  inner 
stimulus  of  his  career,  was  a  thing  alto- 
gether overthrown  and  impotent.  He  was 
too  old  to  reconstruct  life  anew;  the  frag- 
ments were  too  many,  and  the  wreck  too 
complete.  Only  his  philosophy  showed  him 
very  plainly  what  the  end  must  be.  Across 
247 


BERENICE 

the  sky  of  his  vision  it  seemed  to  be  written 
in  letters  of  fire. 

Early  in  the  morning,  having  made  his 
toilette  as  usual  with  a  care  almost  fastidi- 
ous, he  went  out  into  the  sunlit  streets,  mov- 
ing like  a  man  in  a  deep  dream  amongst 
scenes  which  had  become  familiar  to  him 
day  by  day.  At  his  lawyer's  he  made  his 
will,  and  signed  it,  thankful  for  once  for 
his  great  loneliness,  insomuch  as  there  was 
no  one  who  could  call  the  disposal  of  his 
property  to  a  stranger  an  injustice  —  for 
he  had  left  all  to  little  Freddy;  left  it  to 
him  because  of  his  mother's  eyes,  as  he 
thought  with  a  faint  smile.  Then  he  called 
at  his  publisher's  and  at  the  office  of  a  lead- 
ing review  to  which  he  was  a  regular  con- 
tributor, telling  them  to  expect  no  more 
work  from  him  for  a  while;  he  was  going 
abroad  to  take  a  long-earned  holiday.  He 
lunched  at  his  club,  speaking  in  a  more  than 
usually  friendly  manner  to  the  few  men 
248 


BERENICE 

with  whom  at  times  he  had  found  it  a 
pleasure  to  associate,  and  finally,  with  that 
sense  of  unreality  growing  stronger  and 
stronger,  he  found  himself  once  more  in 
the  Park,  in  his  usual  chair,  looking  out 
with  the  same  keen  sympathy  upon  the 
intensely  joyous,  beautiful  phase  of  hfe 
which  floated  around  him.  The  afternoon 
breeze  rustled  pleasantly  among  the  cool 
green  leaves  above  his  head,  and  the  sun- 
light slanted  full  across  the  shaded  walk. 
On  every  hand  were  genial  voices,  cordial 
greetings,  and  light  farewells.  With  a 
sense  almost  of  awe,  he  thought  of  the  days 
when  he  had  sat  there  waiting  for  her  car- 
riage, that  he  might  look  for  a  few  mo- 
ments upon  that  pale-faced  woman,  whose 
influence  over  him  seemed  already  to  have 
commenced  before  even  any  words  had 
passed  between  them.  He  sat  there,  gravely 
acknowledging  the  salutes  of  those  with 
whom  he  was  acquainted,  wearing  always 
249 


BERENICE 

the  same  faint  and  impenetrable  smile  — 
wonderful  mask  of  a  broken  heart.  And 
still  the  memories  came  surging  into  his 
brain.  He  thought  of  that  grey  morning 
when  he  had  sat  there  alone,  oppressed  by 
some  dim  premonitions  of  the  tragedy 
amongst  whose  shadows  he  was  already 
passing,  so  that  even  the  wind  which  had 
followed  the  dawn,  and  shaken  the  rain- 
drops down  upon  him,  had  seemed  to  carry 
upon  its  bosom  wailing  cries  and  sad  human 
voices.  As  the  slow  moments  passed  along, 
he  found  himself  watching  for  her  carriage 
with  some  remnant  of  the  old  wistfulness. 
But  it  never  came,  and  for  that  he  was 
thankful. 

At  last  he  rose,  and  walked  leisurely  back 
to  his  rooms.  He  gave  orders  to  his  serv- 
ant to  pack  all  his  things  for  a  journey  ; 
then,  for  the  last  time,  he  stood  up  in  the 
midst  of  his  possessions,  looking  around 
him  with  a  vague  sorrowfulness  at  the  little 
250 


BERENICE 

familiar  objects  which  had  become  dear  to 
him,  both  by  association  and  by  reason  of 
a  certain  sense  of  companionship  which  he 
had  always  been  able  to  feel  for  beautiful 
things,  however  inanimate.  It  was  here 
that  he  had  come  when  he  had  first  left 
Oxford,  full  of  certain  definite  ambitions, 
and  with  a  mind  fixed  at  least  upon  living 
a  serene  and  well-ordered  life.  He  had 
woven  many  dreams  within  these  four  walls. 
How  far  away  those  days  now  seemed  to 
be  from  him!  He  would  never  dream  any 
more;  for  him  the  world's  great  dream  was 
very  close  at  hand. 

He  poured  himself  out  a  glass  of  wine 
from  a  quaintly  cut  decanter,  and  set  it 
down  on  his  writing-desk,  emptying  into  it 
with  scrupulous  care  the  contents  of  a  little 
packet  which  he  had  been  carrying  all  day 
in  his  waistcoat  pocket.  He  paused  for  a 
moment  before  taking  up  his  pen,  to  move 
a  little  on  one  side  the  deep  blue  china  bowl 
251 


BERENICE 

of  flowers  which,  summer  and  winter  alike, 
stood  always  fresh  upon  his  writing-table. 
To-day  it  chanced,  by  some  irony  of  fate, 
that  they  were  roses,  and  a  swift  flood  of 
memories  rushed  into  his  tinghng  senses 
as  the  perfume  of  the  creamy  blossoms 
floated  up  to  him. 

He  set  his  teeth,  and,  taking  out  some 
paper,  began  to  write. 

"Berenice,  farewell!  To-night  I  am  go- 
ing on  a  very  long  journey,  to  a  very  far 
land.  You  and  I  may  never  meet  again, 
and  so,  farewell!  Farewell  to  you,  Bere- 
nice, whom  I  have  loved,  and  whom  I 
dearly  love.  You  are  the  only  woman  who 
has  ever  wandered  into  my  little  life  to 
teach  me  the  great  depths  of  human  pas- 
sion—  and  you  came  too  late.  But  that 
was  not  your  fault. 

"  For  what  I  am  doing,  do  you,  at  least, 
not  blame  me.  If  there  were  a  single  per- 
son in  the  world  dependent  upon  me,  or 
252 


BERENICE 

to  whom  my  death  would  be  a  real  loss, 
I  would  remain.  But  there  is  no  one. 
And,  whereas  alive  I  can  do  you  no  good, 
dead  I  may!  Berenice,  your  husband  lives 
—  in  suffering  and  in  poverty;  your  hus- 
band and  your  little  boy.  Freddy  has 
looked  at  me  out  of  your  dark  eyes,  my 
love,  and  whilst  I  live  I  can  never  forget 
it.  I  hold  his  little  hands,  and  I  look  into 
his  pure,  childish  face,  and  the  great  love 
which  I  bear  for  his  mother  seems  like  an 
unholy  thing.  Leave  your  husband  out  of 
the  question  —  put  every  other  considera- 
tion on  one  side,  Freddy's  eyes  must  have 
kept  us  apart  for  ever. 

"  And,  dear,  it  is  your  boy's  future,  and 
the  care  of  your  stricken  husband,  which 
must  bring  you  into  closer  and  more  inti- 
mate touch  with  the  vast  world  of  human 
sorrows.  Love  is  a  sacrifice,  and  life  is  a 
sacrifice.  I  know,  and  that  knowledge  is 
the  comfort  of  my  last  sad  night  on  earth, 
253 


BERENICE 

that  you  will  find  your  rightful  place 
amongst  her  toiling  daughters.  And  it  is 
because  there  is  no  fitting  place  for  me  by 
your  side  that  I  am  very  well  content  to 
die.  For  myself,  I  have  well  counted  the 
cost.  Death  is  an  infinite  compulsion.  Our 
little  lives  are  but  the  veriest  trifle  in  the 
scale  of  eternity.  Whether  we  go  into 
everlasting  sleep,  or  into  some  other  mystic 
state,  a  few  short  years  here  more  or  less 
are  no  great  matter,  Berenice." 

Again  there  came  that  curious  pain  at  his 
heartstrings,  and  the  singing  in  his  ears. 
The  pen  slipped  from  his  fingers;  his  head 
drooped. 

"  Berenice!  "  he  whispered.    "  Berenice!  " 

And  as  though  by  a  miracle  she  heard 
him,  for  she  was  close  at  hand.  Whilst  he 
had  been  writing,  the  door  was  softly  opened 
and  closed,  a  tall,  grey-mantled  figure  stood 
upon  the  threshold.  It  was  Berenice! 
254 


BERENICE 

"  May  I  come  in? "  she  cried  softly. 
Her  face  was  flushed,  and  her  cheeks  were 
wet,  but  a  smile  was  quivering  upon  her 
lips. 

He  did  not  answer.  She  came  into  the 
room,  close  to  his  side.  Her  fingers  clasped 
the  hand  which  was  hanging  over  the  side 
of  his  chair.  The  lamp  had  burnt  very  low; 
she  could  scarcely  see  his  face. 

"  Dear,  I  have  come  to  you,"  she  mur- 
mured. "  I  am  sorry.  I  want  you  to  for- 
give me.  I  do  love  you!  you  know  that  I 
love  you! " 

The  pressure  of  her  fingers  upon  his  hand 
was  surely  returned.  She  stood  up,  and  her 
cloak  slipped  from  her  shoulders  on  to  the 
floor. 

"  Why  don't  you  speak  to  me?  Don't 
you  hear?  Don't  you  understand?  I  have 
come  to  you!  I  will  not  be  sent  away!  It 
is  too  late!  My  carriage  brought  me  here. 
I  have  told  my  people  that  I  shall  not  be 
255 


BERENICE 

returning  1  Come  away  with  me  to-night  I 
Let  us  start  now  I  Listen!  it  is  too  late  to 
draw  back!  Every  one  knows  that  I  have 
come  to  you!  We  shall  be  so  happy!  Tell 
me  that  you  are  glad!  " 

There  was  no  answer.  He  did  not  move. 
She  came  close  to  him,  so  that  her  cheek 
almost  touched  his. 

"  Tell  me  that  you  are  glad,"  she  begged. 
"  Don't  argue  with  me  any  more.  If  you 
do,  I  shall  stop  your  mouth  with  kisses.  I 
am  not  hke  you,  dear!  I  must  have  love! 
I  cannot  live  alone  any  longer!  I  have 
touched  the  utmost  limits  of  my  endiu^ance! 
I  will  stay  with  you!  You  shall  love  me! 
Listen!  If  you  do  not,  I  swear  —  but  no! 
You  will  save  me  from  that!  Oh,  I  know 
that  you  will!  But  don't  argue  with  me  I 
Words  are  so  cold,  and  I  am  a  woman  — 
and  I  must  love  and  be  loved,  or  I  shall 
die  .  .  .  Ah!" 

She  started  round  with  a  little  scream. 
256 


BERENICE 

Her  eyes,  frightened  and  dilated,  were  fixed 
upon  the  door.  On  the  threshold  a  little 
boy  was  standing  in  his  night-shirt,  looking 
at  her  with  dark,  inquiring  eyes. 

"  I  want  Mr.  Matravers,  if  you  please," 
he  said  deliberately.  "  Will  you  tell  him? 
He  don't  know  that  I'm  here  yet!  He  will 
be  so  surprised!  Charlie  Dunlop  —  that's 
where  I  live  —  has  the  fever,  and  dad  sent 
me  here  with  a  letter,  but  Mr.  Matravers 
was  out  when  we  came,  and  nurse  put  me 
to  bed.  Now  she's  gone  away,  and  I'm  so 
lonely.  Is  he  asleep?  Please  wake  him, 
and  tell  him." 

She  turned  up  the  lamp  without  moving 
her  eyes  from  the  little  white-clad  figure. 
A  great  trembling  was  upon  her!  It  was 
like  a  voice  from  the  shadows  of  another 
world.  And  Matravers,  why  did  he  not 
speak? 

Slowly  the  lamp  burned  up.  She  leaned 
forward.  He  was  sitting  with  his  head 
257 


BEEENICE 

resting  upon  his  hand,  and  the  old,  faint 
smile  parting  his  lips.  But  he  did  not  look 
up!  He  did  not  speak  to  her!  He  was 
sitting  like  a  carved  image! 

"  For  God's  sake  speak  to  me  I "  she 
cried. 

Then  a  certain  rigidity  in  his  posture 
struck  her  for  the  first  time,  and  she  threw 
herself  on  the  ground  beside  him  with  a 
cry  of  fear.  She  pressed  her  lips  to  his, 
chafed  his  cold  hand,  and  whispered  fran- 
tically in  his  ear!  But  there  was  no  answer 
—  there  never  could  be  any  answer.  Ma- 
travers  was  dead,  and  the  wine-glass  at  his 
side  was  untasted. 

Berenice  did  not  faint!  She  did  not  even 
lose  consciousness  for  a  moment.  Moan- 
ing softly  to  herself,  but  dry-eyed,  she 
leaned  over  his  shoulder  and  read  the  words 
which  he  had  written  to  her,  of  which,  in- 
deed, the  ink  was  scarcely  dry.  When  she 
258 


But  there  was  no  answer  —  there  never  could  be  any  answer 


BERENICE 

had  finished,  she  took  up  the  wine-glass  in 
her  own  fingers,  holding  it  so  steadily  that 
not  a  drop  was  spilt. 

Here  was  the  panacea  she  craved!     The 
problem  of  her  troubled  fife  was  so  easily . 
to  be  solved.    Rest  with  the  man  she  loved! 

Her  arms  would  fold  around  him  as  she 
sank  to  the  ground.  Perhaps  he  was  al- 
ready waiting  for  her  somewhere  —  in  one 
of  those  mystic  worlds  where  the  soul  might 
shake  itself  free  from  this  weary  burden  of 
human  passions  and  sorrows.  Her  lips 
parted  in  a  wonderful  smile.  She  raised 
the  glass! 

There  was  a  soft  patter  across  the  carpet, 
and  a  gentle  tug  at  her  dress. 

"  I  am  very  cold,"  Freddy  cried  pite- 
ously,  holding  out  a  little  blue  foot  from 
underneath  his  night-shirt.  "  If  you  don't 
want  to  wake  ]Mr.  jNIatr avers,  will  you  take 
me  up  to  bed,  please?" 

Through   a   mist   of   sudden   tears,   she 
261 


BERENICE 

looked  down  into  her  boy's  face.  She  drew 
a  deep,  quick  breath  —  her  fingers  were 
suddenly  nerveless.  There  was  a  great  dull 
stain  on  the  front  of  her  dress,  the  wine- 
glass, shattered  into  many  pieces,  lay  at  her 
feet.  She  fell  on  her  knees,  and  with  a 
little  burst  of  passionate  sobs  took  him  into 
her  arms. 

There  were  grey  hairs  in  the  woman's 
head,  although  she  was  still  quite  young. 
A  few  yards  ahead,  the  bath  chair,  wheeled 
by  an  attendant,  was  disappearing  in  the 
shroud  of  white  mist,  which  had  suddenly 
rolled  in  from  the  sea.  But  the  woman  lin- 
gered for  a  moment  with  her  eyes  fixed 
upon  that  dim,  distant  line,  where  the  twi- 
light fell  softly  upon  the  grey  ocean.  It 
was  the  single  hour  in  the  long  day  which 
she  claimed  always  for  her  own  —  for  it 
seemed  to  her  in  that  mysterious  stillness, 
when  the  shadows  were  gathering  and  the 
262 


BERENICE 

winds  had  dropped,  that  she  could  some- 
times hear  his  voice.  Perhaps,  somewhere, 
he  too  longed  for  that  hour  —  a  dweller,  it 
might  be,  in  that  wonderful  spirit  world  of 
the  unknown,  of  which  he  had  spoken  some- 
times with  a  curiously  grave  solemnity. 
Her  hands  clasped  the  iron  railing,  a  light 
shone  for  a  moment  in  the  pale-lined  face 
turned  so  wistfully  seawards! 

Was  it  the  low,  sweet  music  of  the  sea, 
or  was  it  indeed  his  voice  in  her  ears,  lan- 
guorous and  soft,  long-travelled  yet  very 
clear.  Somewhere  at  least  he  must  know 
that  hers  had  become  at  his  bidding  the 
real  sacrifice!  A  smile  transfigured  her 
face!    It  was  for  this  she  had  lived! 

Then  there  came  her  summons.  A  quer- 
ulous little  cry  reached  her  from  the  bath 
chair,  drawn  up  on  the  promenade.  She 
waved  her  hand  cheerfully. 

"I  am  coming,"  she  cried;  "wait  for 
me!" 

263 


BERENICE 

But  her  face  was  turned  towards  that 
dim,  grey  line  of  silvery  light,  and  the 
wind  caught  hold  of  her  words  and  carried 
them  away  over  the  bosom  of  the  sea  — 
upwards  I 


THE  END. 


264 


E.  PHILLIPS  OPPENHEIM'S  NOVELS 

Illustrated.     Cloth.     $1,50  Each 

The  Lost  Ambassador 

A  straightforward  mystery  story,  the  plot  of  which  hinges  on 
the  sale  of  two  battleships. 

The  Illustrious  Prince 

The  tale  of  a  world-startling  international  intrigue. 

Mr.  Oppenheim   is  a  past  master  of   the  art  of   constructing 
ingenious  plots  and  weaving  them  around  attractive  characters. 

— London  Morning  Mail 

Jeanne  of  the  Marshes 

An  engrossing  tale  of  love  and  adventure. 

A  real  Oppenheim  tale,  abundantly  satisfying  to  the  reader. 

—  New  York  World 

The  Governors 

A  romance  of  the  intrigues  of  American  finance. 

The  ever  welcome  Oppenheim.  — Boston  Transcript 

The  Missioner 

Strongly  depicts  the  love  of  an  earnest  missioner  and  a  worldly 
heroine  with  a  past. 
An  entrancingly  interesting  romance.  —  Pittsburg  Post 

The  Long  Arm  of  Mannister 

A  distinctly  different  story  that  deals  with  a  wronged  man's 
ingenious  plan  of  revenge. 
Mannister  is  a  powerfully  drawn  character.  —  Philadelphia  Press 

As  a  Man  Lives,  or  the  Mystery  of  the  Yellow  House 

Tells  of  an  English  curate  and  his  mysterious  neighbor. 

Every  page  in  it  suggests  a  mystery.  — Literary  World,  London 

LITTLE,  BROWN,  &  COMPANY,  Publishers,  BOSTON 


E.  PHILLIPS  OPPENHEIM'S  NOVELS 

Illustrated.     Cloth.     $1,50  Each 


A  Maker  of  History 


A  capital  story  that  "  explains "  the  Russian  Baltic  fleet's 
attack  on  the  North  Sea  fishing  fleet. 

An  enthralling  tale,  with  a  surprisingly  well-sustained  mystery, 
and  a  series  of  plots,  counterplots,  and  well-managed  climaxes. 

—  Brooklyn  Timet 

The  Malefactor 

An  amazing  story  of  the  strange  revenge  of  Sir  Wingrave 
Seton,  who  suffered  imprisonment  for  a  crime  he  did  not 
commit. 

Spirited,  aggressive,  vigorous,  mysterious,  and,  best  of  all,  well 
told.  — Boston  Transcript 

A  Millionaire  of  Yesterday 

A  gripping  story  of  a  West  African  miner   who   clears   his 
name  of  a  great  stain. 
A  thrilling  story  throughout.  — Philadelphia  Press 

The  Man  and  His  Kingdom 

An  intensely  dramatic  tale  of  love,  intrigue,  and  adventure  in 
a  South  American  state. 

A  daring  bit  of  fiction,  full  of  vigorous  life  and  unflagging  interest. 

—  Chicago  Tribune 

The  Betrayal 

An  enthralling  story  of  treachery  of  state  secrets  in  high 
diplomatic  circles  of  England. 

The  denouement  is  almost  as  surprising  as  the  mystery  is  baffling. 

—  Public  Opinion 

A  Daughter  of  the  Marionis 

A  melodramatic  story  of  Palermo  and  London,  that  is  replete 
with  action. 

LIITLE,  BROWN,  &  COMPANY,  Publishers,  BOSTON 


E.  PHILLIPS  OPPENHEIM'S  NOVELS 

Illustratkd.     Cloth.     $1.50  Each 

A  Prince  of  Sinners 

An   engrossing    story    of   English    social    political   life,  •with 
powerfully  drawn  characters. 

Thoroughly  matured,  brilliantly  constructed,  and  convincingly 
told.  — London  Times 

It  is  rare  that  so  much  knowledge  of  the  world,  taken  as  a  whole, 
is  set  between  two  covers  of  a  noveL  —  Chicago  Daily  Newt 

Anna  the  Adventuress 

A  surprising  tale  of  London  life,  with  a  most  engaging  heroine. 

The  consequences  of  a  bold  deception  Mr.  Oppenheim  has  unfolded 
to  us  with  remarkable  ingenuity.  The  story  sparkles  with 
brilliant  conversation  and  strong  situations.     — St.  Louia  Mepublie 


Mysterious  Mr.  Sabin 

An   ingenious    story   of  a  bold   international   intrigue   with 
an  irresistibly  fascinating  "  villain." 

Intensely  readable  for  its  dramatic  force,  its  absolute  originality, 
and  the  strength  of  the  men  and  women  who  fill  its  pages. 

—  Pittsburg  Times 

The  Yellow  Crayon 

Containing  the   exciting  experiences  of   Mr.    Sabin    with  a 
powerful  secret  society. 

This  stirring  story  shows  unusual  originality.  — New  York  Times 

The  Master  Mummer 

The  strange  romance  of  Isobel   de  Sorrens  and  the  part  a 
mysterious  actor  played  in  her  life. 

A  love  tale  laden  with  adventure  and  intrigue,  with  a  saving  grace 
of  humor.  — Philadelphia  North  American 

The  Mystery  of  Mr.  Bernard  Brown 

A  mystery  story,  rich  in  sensational  incidents  and  dramatic 

situations. 

LIITLE,  BROWxN,  &  COMPANY,  Publishers,  BOSTON 


E.  PHILLIPS  OPPENHEIM'S  NOVELS 

Illustrated.     Cloth.     $1.50  Each 

The  Avenger 

Lliiravels  an  intricate  tangle  of  political  intrigue  and  private 
revenge  with  consummate  power  of  fascination. 
A  lively,  thrilling,  captivating  story.  —  New  York  Times 

A  Lost  Leader 

Weaves  a  realistic  romance  around  a  striking  personality. 

Mr.  Oppenheim  is  one  of  the  few  writers  who  can  make  a  political 
novel  as  interesting  as  a  good  detective  story. 

—  The  Independent.,  New  York 

The  Great  Secret 

Deals  with  a  stupendous  international  conspiracy. 

Founded  on  a  daring  invention  and  daringly  carried  out 

—  The  Boston  Globe 

Enoch  Strone:  A  Master  of  Men 

The  story  of  a  masterful  self-made  man  who  made  a  foolish 
marriage  early  in  life. 

In  no  other  novel  has  Mr.  Oppenheim  created  such  life-like 
characters  or  handled  his  plot  with  such  admirable  force  and 
restraint.  —  Baltimore  American 

A  Sleeping  Memory 

The  remarkable  tale  of  an  unhappy  girl  who  consented  to  be 
deprived  of  her  memory,  with  unlooked-for  consequences. 

He  deals  with  the  curious  and  unexpected,  and  displays  all  the 
qualities  which  made  him  famous.         —  St.  Louis  Globe-Democrat 

The  Traitors 

A   capital   story   of  love,   adventure,   and    Russian   political 
intrigue  in  a  small  Balkan  state. 

Swift-moving  and  exciting.  The  love  episodes  have  freshness 
and  charm.  — Minneapolis  Tribune 

LITTLE,  BROWN,  &  COMPANY,  Piiblishers,  BOSTON 


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